Honor
by WindSurfBabe
Summary: Family is sacred. GawainOC.
1. Vengeance

Another King Arthur story ! But a different cycle, so no Viviana is this story.

Disclaimer: none of the characters you recognize (except for my rendition of Isolde and Morgaine) belong to me.

* * *

- 1 / Vengeance -

Since she was little, Morgaine loved riding, the rush of adrenaline and the feeling of power over the animal underneath her it procured. She urged her horse forward, her hair flying wildly in the wind, and she laughed in delight at the speed, longing for more. The only twinge of regret was that she was finally nearing her destination : Dunguaire castle, her home.

'Home.' Morgaine let the word roll off her tongue, tasting it. She grimaced, deciding that the sensation was unpleasant. She had not been in Ireland for fifteen years, though it only felt like yesterday that her father gave her away to a strange, unknown old woman.

It was a dark, stormy winter night, but the whole castle was awake, waiting for the Queen Isolde's deliverance. The childbirth was going to be difficult, and in his despair, the King had sent for a priestess, a midwife from Avalon. Little Morgaine was waiting with her sister, but shared none of Isolde's concern ; she already knew what was to come, and had braced herself for her mother's untimely death. While her older sister, a girl of already promising beauty, had recoiled in tears at the sight of the soaked, old and ugly woman who entered the room, Morgaine had looked up with curiosity to meet her eyes, her cold, calculating staring the priestess down.

Queen Isolde had died a few hours later of blood loss, her newborn son barely breathing. And the priestess spoke to the King : 'A life for a life, my Lord. My presence tonight comes with a price. And I will charge with your youngest daughter – she is of our blood, and belongs to the Goddess. We will take good care of her.' And the King's greed overcame his grief and his love for his wife, for he pondered that the departure of an unwanted second girl, so unpromising in the prospect of a future marriage with her plain looks and sharp tongue, was getting him rid of a substantial dowry, and he accepted. Little did he know that he had been cheated, for his son died an hour after the priestess' departure from Dunguaire. Morgaine had left with her, and the castle breathed with relief. She was an unsettling, estranged child, who always spoke the truth, no matter how painful. People avoided her, for strange things happened around little Morgaine, accidents, and even the death of Isolde's first nursemaid, whose heart stopped beating while she was leaning over her sleeping protégée with a pillow – the King would discover later that she had been promised a considerable amount of coin by a rival Lord for the death of his offspring. It may have been the fear of being discovered. It may have been little Morgaine, who lay in a crib nearby.

The priestess had taken her far over the sea, to an island in the marshes, perpetually hidden in fog. Avalon, the home of what was left of the Goddess' cult. Morgaine thought warmly of the place where she had discovered the taste of freedom. Green hills beyond the fog, surrounding the stone circle where the priestesses held their ceremonies. Her bed in the novices' house, and her books, her favourite place under the oak, beside a little stream. She missed Avalon, as she rode towards the stone castle on the hill.

The women of the cult had been kind to her at first, offering their comfort to a little orphan. Their surprise was great, and it was a most unpleasant one, when they noticed that she didn't show any grief over her loss, nor did she long for home like children are expected to. She never made friends, but didn't have enemies either, for all knew that she was a powerful ally, and someone whose anger, although rare, was not to be taken lightly. So she kept mostly to herself, learning to control the powers that grew stronger with time. She had discovered a whole new world, an universe of reading and learning, of dreaming and wandering in the woods alone, enjoying the one thing most women her age could never have : freedom.

Only once more had she been to Dunguaire, when the King had requested her presence for his second marriage. The events had shown him his mistake, and Morgaine had been sent back in a hurry, for her prophesising of the bride's death in childbirth (a prophecy proven true a year later) had rather put a damper on the cheery spirit of the feast.

* * *

She stormed over the heavy drawbridge and into the courtyard, dismounting quickly in a whirlwind of black skirts. The castle had not changed much over the years, she noted, with the exception of some new – and ugly – tapestries adorning the walls. She rolled her eyes. Poor Isolde had always shown as much taste for decoration as a colour-blind magpie.

She made her way easily through the crowd in the antechamber, for the people stepped aside hurriedly, avoiding fearfully the contact of the dark cloak that swirled behind her. Morgaine smiled in satisfaction. She fancied theatrical arrivals.

She brushed aside the two soldiers standing guard before the door of the Throne Room : 'Don't you touch me', she warned, smiling sweetly, 'Or I swear you won't live to regret it !' As the men drew back in fear, she pushed the doors open. 'Father !' she exclaimed, walking up the long alley. 'You asked for me ?'

The King, a fat, imposing man who held his land within an iron grip, shrank back in his throne. 'Morgaine !' he grimaced, his voice somewhat strained. 'We need your help.' He glanced around them. 'Leave us ! Now !' he gestured, chasing everyone away. When the heavy doors of the room had been closed, he continued : 'It is about your sister.' 'Why is it I'm not surprised ?' she sneered. 'What has she done, this time ?'

Isolde was pacing in front of the window, one hand on her swollen belly, glancing occasionally to her reflection in the glass, checking that her pregnancy didn't stain her perfect beauty. Morgaine would've snorted, but that would've been most undignified. She was supposed to listen to her sister's ranting, but her attention had faltered somewhere in the middle of the first sentence. As Isolde's high-pitched voice rose to new levels of volume, scorching Morgaine's ears, she forced herself to concentrate on the words.

'I want Tristan to suffer for what he did to me !' screeched her sister, her elegant hands balled into fists, her beautiful face contorted with unrepressed rage. Morgaine blinked. 'You want me to torture him ?' 'Torture him, gut him, gut them all if necessary ! But he must suffer !' screamed Isolde. 'Tsk tsk, sister !' Morgaine's lips curled into a sardonic smile. 'You shouldn't get so worked up, in your… state', she drawled. Isolde snatched a chandelier and hurled it at her, but the priestess dodged it easily, laughing. 'Oh come off it ! You want me to kill a man because you couldn't keep your skirts down ? Because he behaved like a man ?' 'I hate you !!' shrieked her sister ; she didn't look so stunning anymore, her silky hair a mess, her face blotchy and swollen. Morgaine was enjoying the sight thoroughly, for it was the main reason why she drove Isolde to hysterics.

'Morgaine', growled her father from his seat in the corner of the room. '_This_ is a disgrace to our family, and a stain on your sister's honour that must be avenged.' Morgaine burst out laughing, and covered her mouth with a hand when she caught her father's menacing stare. 'Sorry', she waved her hand. 'Please, continue !'

'This man, this… Tristan, he has insulted us. Because of him we have lost our dignity.' 'You mean you have lost the gold Marc accepted to pay for an untouched bride', she corrected, and his father rose from his seat. 'You… I am your father !' he bellowed, 'You owe me respect !' She raised an eyebrow, and the lights of the torches seemed to diminish, the temperature dropped several degrees. The King shrank back into the throne. 'Respect', she repeated, with cold steel in her voice. 'Respect, _dear father_, is earned. And you have never done something for it.' She looked around, to see Isolde huddled in a corner, livid with fear, an interesting change of colour from the blotchy red he wore before, thought Morgaine, amused. She raised her hands in a mock gesture of surrender. 'Fine', she conceded, 'I will do as you wish. Tristan will soon regret the day he crossed my dear sister's path. But' - she raised a finger – 'This little… help… will come with a price.' The King nodded. 'What is it that you want ? For I will not give you the crown !' She rolled her eyes. 'As if I care about your pitiful kingdom… No. I want you to make me an orphan.' Her father clutched the armrests of his throne and drew back even more, as if he wanted to melt into the seat, and she laughed merrily, clapping her hands together. 'No no no…' she said. 'I do not wish your death. I only want you to give up your rights on me. To make me a free woman.'

* * *

The land of Britain lay once again before Morgaine. She glanced one last time behind her, to the blue horizon where lay Ireland, so far away. A land she would never see again, if she succeeded in her mission. She smiled unpleasantly. Soon, she would be a free woman.

Mounting her black stallion, she nudged his flanks and took off in the direction of the South, towards Camboglanna.

The sun was setting over the dusty road when she saw a man waving to her, motioning her over. Pulling on the reins, she stopped and looked down at him, raising an eyebrow. 'My Lady… Please, my wife is about to have our child… There is no one around to help her, please…' She sighed. Every hour of delay separated her from her freedom. But the obligation to assist any woman in need of help was a part of the oath she had taken upon becoming a priestess ; it was also the only part she felt compelled to respect. 'Lead me to your wife.'

The man, whose name was Brady, lived with his wife Eva in a small cabin in the woods. Morgaine descended swiftly, throwing him the reins, and he eyed the steed and the richly embroidered saddle with evident envy. Morgaine repressed a sneer of disgust as a dirty hand caressed her belongings longingly ; but there were more pressing matters at hand than establishing hierarchy with some farmer.

Inside the house, the woman lay on a small mattress on the floor, clutching her rounded belly, her face contorted with pain. She was panting, and Morgaine saw that she was already far in labour. Tucking up her sleeves, she turned towards Brady : 'Fetch me hot water and clean cloth.' 'Er… I'm sorry, my Lady…' he stammered, 'But the cloth… we have nothing, except the clothes we're wearing.' She grimaced, thinking of all the little, crawly beasts that probably lived in his garbs – and got a fleeting urge to claw her eyes out. She sighed again, took off her cloak and proceeded to rip it into strips, swearing under her breath. Her favourite cloak. Rip. Her best cloak. Rip. Rip. Her darkest, blackest cloak. Sigh. Once the water was boiling in a small cauldron, she ushered the man out, and went to kneel beside Eva. She laid her hand on the woman's swollen belly and knew it would be a long, long night.

'Push !' Morgaine commanded, holding Eva's sweaty hand and tucking up her dress. 'Push !' she encouraged again, and Eva obeyed, contracting her abdomen, panting with the pain. In an ultimate effort, she squeezed the priestess' hand and screamed. Morgaine took the newborn carefully, severing the umbilical chord with the short retractable blade she carried in her left sleeve and ligaturing both ends. 'Here, it is a boy', she said, wrapping the baby in what was left of her beautiful cloak and handing it to the mother. 'He's beautiful', whispered Eva, taking her son with unsure hands, fearing he might break. 'Thank you so much… For everything' she added, looking up. Her smile of gratitude was cold, and her pupils widened suddenly.

Morgaine dodged the blow instinctively, but Brady came back at her, brandishing a rusty axe. 'Kill her, Brady ! Kill her !' screamed his wife, clutching her wailing son to her chest. He launched again at the priestess, but she reached out and touched his chest briefly. This was enough. The axe fell from Brady's hands as he clawed at his chest, tearing clothes and skin, trying to restart his frozen, still heart. Finally, death reached him and he fell to the floor. 'No !!' shrieked his wife.

'Why did you do this ? Was it my possessions that you wanted ?' asked Morgaine in disbelief. She shook her head reproachingly. 'This death is on you. Now, you are a widow…'

She washed calmly Eva's blood from her hands and gathered her belongings, while Eva tried to crawl to where her husband's lifeless body lay, leaving a crimson trail on the wooden boards. 'You should rest', remarked Morgaine and exited the house. Her job here was done. Mounting her horse, she glanced back briefly, listening to the wails of sorrow coming from inside.

Then she nudged her horse forward. She still had a long journey before her.


	2. The Attack

- 2 / The Attack -

Morgaine kicked her horse forward, despite the animal's evident fatigue. The earlier events of the day had left her a bitter taste in the mouth, and an emptiness inside, as always when she used her power on impulse, without measuring how much she gave away. Her gesture had been a foolish one, she scolded herself, a simple caprice of a spoiled child. She had wanted to smite the ignorant peasant, to show him the extent of her powers… Really, was it worth it ?

Moreover, she had failed to accomplish her duty, leaving a sick woman in need of tending to alone, with a newborn baby and no means of subsistence. Morgaine had almost turned back, but her stubbornness had taken over, and she gritted her teeth, galloping away from the cursed place. But the miles between her and the now widowing Eva had not relieved her of her shame and guilt.

The young woman pulled abruptly on the reins, bringing the wild ride to an end. The horse beneath her snorted in protest against the abuse, as the iron bit hurt its sensitive mouth. Morgaine sighed. Her behaviour was inexcusable, her lack of discipline worthy that of a first-year apprentice. She was completely, utterly disgusted with herself.

The priestess rode gloomily for a while, the beginning forest casting a fitting shadow upon her. A day's ride was taking its toll on her : her muscles ached, and Morgaine was thinking fondly of her comfortable bed, back in Avalon.

She didn't notice as the night fell, eating away the scarce daylight that had appeared between the heavy clouds. The surrounding woods were silent, save for the occasional snap of a twig or the rustle of the leaves, disturbed by some wild animal. Pulling the dark cloak tighter around her, trying to keep warm, Morgaine cursed once more the chain of events that had led her to the necessity of spending a night in the forest. _Oh Goddess, why me ?_ she thought disgustedly when the first drops of rain began to trickle down her hood.

* * *

The tired horse stumbled down the muddy road, water running down its feathers. Morgaine swayed in the saddle, shivering in the cold wind that doused her with rain and feeling utterly miserable. Exhausted, the priestess dared not summon a flame to warm her frozen fingers, for fear of losing all means to defend herself should the need arise. She glanced to the pitch black forest depths, trying to distinguish an exit from the wooden hell. Suddenly, in the white flash of a lightening, she spotted a pale face observing her, a spiked circle painted on the man's forehead. _Woads_, she realized, _they are all around, watching me_. Morgaine had heard of the cruel skirmishes between the Roman authorities and the many tribes of the island, but never had she actually seen the warriors. And never had she felt the sensation of a thousand arrows pointed at her.

Extending a trembling hand, she ran her palm down the horse's soaked neck, patting it gently. _Just one last effort, my poor friend_, she thought, _one last effort, and we will both be safe_. Relishing the animal's warmth, Morgaine closed her eyes, perceiving the close echo of the Woads' hostile consciences, their tension before the attack, anticipating the kill.

Suddenly, as one of the Woads, impatient for the fight, jumped to the ground with a war cry, the young woman gripped the reins and kicked her mount into a full gallop. Arrows whistled past her as she tore through the forest, fighting off branches that tried to rip her off her horse. She flew, blinded by the rain ; the animal beneath her stumbled suddenly, and as Morgaine turned around, she saw an arrow protruding from its flank. Blood oozed from the wound, black as tar. With a scream of desperation, the priestess balled her fist, and slashed towards the claw-like treetops. A blade of blue light swam through the air, and several Woads fell, limbs severed, guts cut free. The rain coloured red.

The steed fell to its knees ; it tried to get up, clawing at the mud in agony, but the thunder covered its laboured breathing. Morgaine knelt by its head, taking a second to ease the loyal animal's pain. It was pure idiocy, she knew it, and yet she couldn't tear herself from its side. Then, casting the heavy cloak aside, she picked up her soaked skirts and ran. Icy water poured down her body, prickling like a thousand shards, and the muddy earth itself seemed to try to grab her, sticking to the hem of her dress, pulling her down. _Come to me_, it seemed to say, _come into my quiet embrace forever_.

Fighting the cold weight of water, Morgaine felt her strength abandon her. Panting heavily, every intake of air burning her throat, she pressed her back to an old tree. The silhouettes of the Woads approached cautiously, wary after her desperate attack. The intermittent lightening painted them closer and closer.

Morgaine understood that she was not going to survive the night. It was that simple, all her hopes and fears reduced to dust before this undeniable fact : she was dead. She felt strangely calm, the trembling in her hands subsiding, partly anesthetized by the cold. With an ugly smile, the priestess raised her hands in a last spell, pouring all her hatred and disdain into the intricate net of power.

She was not going to die alone.

The raw energy shot through the closest opponents, and the men slowed down, their faces masks of horror as their limbs responded no more, slowly turning into stone. Waves of excruciating pain tore primal screams from their throats, until they could scream no more, vocal chords paralysed forever in granite. And Morgaine understood why this spell had been forbidden since its invention : for in the depths of the statues, she could see the souls of the warriors, struggling to break free, but never to succeed. In a few years, the men so imprisoned, but still alive, would become mad from solitude.

The remaining Woads continued to close in on her, rage painted on their faces along with the tribal signs. _Let them come_. Morgaine unsheathed the small dagger she wore, the cold steel reflecting her will. She had no power left ; and she knew of the fate that awaited her before death. The young woman was determined to take down as many Woads as she could, and in the most painful way possible. She was a princess of Ireland, a priestess of Avalon, a free woman. She would die free, rather than submit.

Suddenly, an arrow whistled past her, embedding itself into the closest Woad's eye. His comrades hissed in anger, suddenly unsure of their victory ; their eyes darted between the priestess and the dark depths of the woods. Another arrow found its target with the same perfect aim, and one more warrior lay fell to the slippery ground.

'Artorius' growled one of Morgaine's attackers. His comrades glanced at each other and, one by one, started to back away into the night. Their leader sneered at the young woman, pointing a sword to her heart, and then disappeared as well.

The dagger fell from Morgaine's numb fingers, suddenly unbearably heavy. Her legs refused to carry her any longer, and she sagged to the muddy ground. Her hands were trembling froe shock and cold, and the priestess clenched her teeth to prevent a sob of hysteria. She was empty ; even her will seemed to have abandoned her. Thankfully, darkness claimed her before she could disgrace herself with tears.

* * *

'Bloody hell !!' yelled a voice into her ear, 'Have you gone mad ?'

Morgaine winced inwardly. She could feel herself being dragged off to somewhere, but her mind was too tired to worry about the details. She wondered briefly whether she was being spoken to ; if there was someone else present, he did not answer, which seemed to trigger the first speaker's anger to new heights : 'They were at least a dozen ! And you just _had_ to butt in, didn't you ?'

Morgaine was tossed unceremoniously to the ground. She opened an eye lazily, to see the back of a crouching figure in the light of a small fire. The man drew a knife and, before the young woman could move away, planted it angrily into the earth. 'Do as you wish, but next time, remember that I rather enjoy my life !'

'She's awake' answered a raspy voice from the other side of the small clearing. The first speaker turned around abruptly, allowing Morgaine to study him. He was rather large, and his long, golden mane shimmered in the firelight. She thought him rather handsome, though not the most breathtaking man she had ever seen. His blue eyes were narrowed in annoyance ; his comrade, however, seemed supremely unconcerned by his anger : he kept skewering a pair of rabbits with his own knife, the droplets of blood hissing when they hit the flames. The blond man sighed dejectedly, shaking his head. Then he knelt before Morgaine, who had managed to push herself up into a half-sitting position. 'Are you injured ?' he asked, eyeing her attentively, and she suddenly felt very conscious of the wet dress clinging to her body. Scrambling herself up, she shot him a dirty look. 'No.' Her voice was cold, and he shook his golden head. 'Remind me once again what Arthur said about all this ?' he asked his companion. 'The people's gratitude, was it not ?' He took off his cloak, and tossed it negligently towards Morgaine. 'Gratitude, my ass' he mumbled, sitting down by the fire.

The young woman fumed at the gesture. Had she still all her powers, she would've taught him a lesson or two about the respect due to a priestess of Avalon. No, she smiled inwardly ; she would make him crawl for this, later.

It was not without reason that Morgaine was feared even amongst her peers. Even the women used to handling power, felt uneasy in the princess' presence, for she had never hidden her hunger for knowledge, or her readiness to use her magic to get what she wanted. The library of Avalon abounded in ancient books of magic lore, some hidden for the world's safety. But interdictions had never deterred Morgaine, and the young apprentice that she once was had quickly discovered a way to get her hands on the precious volumes. She had power. Why not use it ?

The promise of sweet revenge brought an unpleasant smile to Morgaine's lips, as she wrapped the torn, smelly cloak around her, relishing its warmth. First, she needed to rest, and then…


	3. In Debt

- 3 / In Debt -

'Here' mumbled the blond man, handing Morgaine a piece of roasted rabbit on a stick. The meat was still half raw, dripping with grease-diluted blood, and the priestess grimaced with distaste. He shrugged. 'If you don't want it, I'll have it.'

She snatched the stick away, glaring at him, and he chuckled. 'Hungry, eh ?'

Morgaine gritted her teeth in helpless rage. The day kept going from bad to worse : first the stupid farmer had forced her to kill him, then the bunch of retarded Woads had tried to rape and kill _her_, and now she was forced to endure the company of these two village idiots. _Hurry up !_ pleaded Morgaine inwardly, impatient to regain her full powers. The men did not seem hostile, but she'd better be safe than sorry.

The three of them chewed at their bits of rabbit in gloomy silence, listening as the subsiding rain cried its last droplets on the trees' leaves, high above. Morgaine and her silent saviour seemed perfectly content with the lack of conversation, but the blond man kept shifting uneasily beside the fire, glancing in annoyance at the other. Finally, he exploded.

'Gods, Tristan, I really hate to scout with you.'

Morgaine's head shot up. _A simple coincidence_, she thought, trying to appease the rising wave of worry. The man named Tristan looked up slowly, and Morgaine observed him attentively. A strange, yet noble face, partially hidden by braided dark hair, with unsettling golden eyes that seemed to glow in the light of the fire. The pale skin on his cheekbones was marked with dark tattoos. _Another Woad, maybe ?_ she wondered, as Tristan chuckled softly at his companion's annoyance, what earned him a string of muttered curses. 'What is your name ?' he asked suddenly, and the blond man looked at her in expectation, seemingly overjoyed at this beginning of a conversation.

'Morgaine' she answered with hauteur, 'Priestess of Avalon.' 'I'm Gawain !' he supplied eagerly, extending a hand, but something indescribable flickered in Tristan's eyes, and he grew even more serious than before. 'Are you Woads ?' she inquired, observing Tristan's reaction, but he looked away, hiding behind the curtain of braids. 'Woads ?' repeated Gawain, 'Bloody hell, no ! We are knights. Knights from Sarmatia, stationed at Hadrian's Wall, in Camboglanna. Our commander is Arthur – Artorius Castus – surely you have heard of him ?'

Morgaine nodded slowly, balling her hands into fists under the cloak. 'Avalon.' The name seemed barbaric, almost desecrated in his mouth. 'Where is it ?' 'Far away' she snapped, preventing any other questions. 'Goodnight.'

'Oh, not you, too !' he mumbled, as the priestess turned away brusquely, snuggling deeper into the folds of the cloak.

How could she have been so careless ? How could she have allowed this to happen ?! Her target was sitting a few feet away, with only one other knight to help him ; she would have regained her strength in an hours' time… Here, in the middle of the woods, they would be no match against her. Save for one thing, one bloody little detail…

She owed them. She had a debt, a _geis_, that could only be undone when she, in turn, would save their lives, or when they decided to free her from it. Only then could she accomplish her task, fulfill the mission her despised family had bestowed upon her, and earn – finally – her freedom.

The disappointment, the anger at her own fault did not allow Morgaine much rest, that night, as Gawain lay back near the fire and fell asleep. The young woman wondered that they had not been attacked again, for the blond knight's snoring was sufficient to pinpoint their location with terrifying accuracy. Tristan, however, kept watch as she tossed and turned, trapped in a debt, between her honour and her freedom.

* * *

'Listen, if you prefer to walk, it's up to you !' cried Gawain, exasperated. Morgaine's hands itched for a fireball, or even some good old-fashioned mental torture, but she balled her hands into fists, forcing herself to remain calm. 'I will _not_ ride with you.'

'Well, Tristan rides alone, so it's either me or walking.' Stubborn silence. 'Fine, walking it is.' 'Fine !' snapped Morgaine. He rolled his eyes. 'But I'm sitting in front of you.' Gawain's knuckles whitened as he threatened to crush the handle of his axe. 'Fine' he growled. Morgaine smiled despite herself. She was having fun. For if she could not kill Tristan (and she doubted that Gawain would just stand aside and whistle a tune, waiting till she was done if she did), she was not entitled to make the cooperation enjoyable for them.

She hopped lightly onto the saddle, relishing the grumbles of 'Bloody women, bloody Tristan, bloody island' behind her. The knight took his place behind her ('Bloody _tall_ women') and kicked furiously the horse into a gallop, following Tristan down the forest road. Morgaine felt the warmth emanating from his body, her back pressed against his leather tunic, his arms around her – he had insisted on holding the reins. She felt strangely comfortable, so close to him, despite the desires of murder he could give her whenever he opened his mouth.

Morgaine was not ignorant in the matters of sex : her studies as a priestess of the Goddess allowed her to know much more about the physical aspects of reproduction than most women of her age and social position. Often she had prepared a potion destined to cure infertility, or delivered babies. But as a princess, and possibly a future bride for some lesser Lord, she had never been allowed to participate in the rites of Bealtaine. She had only watched the other priestesses walk away into the warm summer night, swaying, dancing, fingers entwined with the man of their choice, and return come morning, a dreamy, knowing expression on their face.

Morgaine huffed in annoyance at the memory. 'What again ?' snapped Gawain into her ear, and she winced. 'I was wishing you had used the rain to take a bath' she answered dryly. The knight growled in response. 'Maybe you'd rather walk, then ?' he asked, his voice so full of hope that she laughed. 'In your dreams, sir Knight.'

* * *

Gawain sighed with relief when the dark outline of Hadrian's Wall appeared on the horizon, dominating the surrounding plains. As they approached, Morgaine could distinguish the sentinels posted regularly on the ramparts, the fires soaring towards the evening sky, the immense iron spikes of the massive wooden gates. The simple, military architecture was impressive, towering above them as they rode down a dusty road, following the Wall.

Tristan whistled, and with a piercing cry, a hawk descended to perch on his gloved forearm. The tattooed knight caressed delicately the grey feathers, whispering something to the bird, a mysterious smile on his face.

Morgaine suddenly understood what must have attracted her sister in this man : he was untamed, graceful like a wildcat, and at the same time possessed an uncommon control over himself. Exotic and dangerous : enough to make the flighty Isolde forget all sense of decency. And as for Tristan… The eldest princess of Ireland was beautiful beyond words, it was undeniable, and could be innocent or seductive, mysterious or forward if she wanted. No man could ever resist her charms, despite Isolde's ugly temper, a flaw too easily overlooked.

Gawain pulled on the reins abruptly, and Morgaine realised they had stopped in a small courtyard built in Roman style, surrounded by short columns and narrow archways. The blond knight jumped swiftly to the ground, extending an arm to help her dismount ; a gesture she ignored. 'Gawain, Tristan…' greeted them a tall, green-eyed man. Morgaine studied him attentively : his stance was proud, his demeanour that of a man used to command. _This must be Arthur_, she thought. She bowed her head slightly, showing him the strict minimum of the respect due to his rank. 'My Lady…' he inclined his head as well, 'My name is Artorius Castus, commander of the Sarmatian knights. What is your name ?'

'Lady Morgaine, priestess of Avalon. And daughter of Angydd, King of Ireland' she added with distaste. 'Your presence honours us' bowed Arthur, glaring fiercely at Gawain, who was grumbling in disagreement.

'Indeed' said a silky voice, and a tall dark-eyed knight entered the courtyard. 'My Lady, it is a pleasure' he smiled seductively, extending a hand for her to accept. Morgaine ignored it pointedly, for she knew well the likes of him. The first to dance on Bealtaine, never leaving the celebration alone ; never to be heard of again by the heartbroken girls they left behind. This was Lancelot, whose beauty was much spoken of amongst the youngest priestesses : Arthur's second in command, a fierce warrior and a skilled lover. The knight smirked, not deterred by her icy attitude, but Morgaine knew she should not flatter herself. It was not her beauty that attracted him, only the possibility of a shared night with no tomorrow. Lancelot would've probably flirted with anything possessing the right number of breasts.

She followed the knights and their leader inside, through dark, humid corridors and into a large room hung with moth-eaten tapestries whose centre was occupied by a round wooden table. Several knights looked up from their meals as the group entered, their eyes curious when they saw Morgaine.

Arthur gestured to the occupants of the room : 'Knights, this is Lady Morgaine of Ireland. Lady, this is Bors' – a stocky, bald man nodded while chewing on a piece of meat - 'Dagonet' – a huge man with scars all over his face stood up, bowing politely. His gentle grey eyes demented his intimidating appearance. 'And Galahad.' The youngest knight rose from his seat as well, smiling, but Morgaine could see the weariness behind his brash behaviour. A beard was covering his handsome face. _A disguise for his youth_, thought the priestess.

She accepted their bows as due to her rank, acknowledging their names by an imperceptible nod of her head.

'Now, my Lady' spoke Arthur, inviting her to take a seat, 'What brings you to Camboglanna ?' 'A _geis_', she answered, frowning. 'A debt. These knights' – she gestured to Tristan and Gawain – 'Saved my life. My honour commands me to enter their service until I can repay them.'

Galahad snorted, spilling his drink on Dagonet, who glared at the younger knight. Bors guffawed, Gawain gaped at her, Lancelot lifted an elegant eyebrow. Arthur remained serious, though Morgaine could see it was taking him a lot of effort. Only Tristan seemed unfazed, looking at her through his braids, his golden eyes narrowed in… could it be recognition ? Did he see in her face the familiar lines of a one-night stand ? Did he remember the woman he seduced and left, six months ago ?

The sound of a goblet smashing on the ground distracted the priestess from her speculations. Still laughing, Bors had involuntarily knocked over his drink. 'Bors…' growled Arthur warningly, but the stocky knight seemed too amused to be entirely sober, and therefore was impermeable to reason. 'A woman…' he hiccupped, 'At your service, Tris…'

Morgaine smiled. A bad, bad smile, full of unpleasant promises curled up her lips ; a chilling gust of wind slammed the doors open, extinguishing the flame that roared in the fireplace. So this is what they thought of her : a weak woman, ridiculous in her caprice. A servant for the night, perhaps ? Anger fuelled her power, screaming to be freed.

The knights glanced at each other, the feeling that something was severely amiss creeping into their minds. Staring right into Bors' watery eyes, Morgaine watched all colour drain from his face as the broken goblet materialized on the table in front of him. 'Lord !' swore Arthur quietly, crossing himself, and Morgaine looked around, deep disdain written on her features. 'As I said' she said pleasantly, relishing the fear she saw, 'My magic is at your service.'


	4. Poison

- 4 / Poison -

'It still hurts…' remarked Gawain smugly, and Morgaine gritted her teeth, trying to repress the desire to strangle the knight with the bandages she was holding. She glared at the annoying man, and finished tending to the cut. Gawain had indeed been wounded during the morning's training session, and had come to the infirmary, happy to have an excuse to bother the priestess. It seemed to her that he was paying her back for the hell she had put him through, during their ride to Camboglanna.

The young woman tried to glare the knight into submission, but he only smirked, knowing her debt forbade her to hurt him. Instead, Morgaine pulled on the bandage, marvelling despite herself at the smooth, warm skin and the powerful muscles that flexed beneath it. 'My thanks' he nodded, hopping lightly off the bed, and leaving Morgaine to tend to the other patients queuing at the Healing Rooms. _Someone_ had spread the rumour that the priestess had a cure for any venereal disease, and Morgaine had spent a most unpleasant morning examining the private parts of half the fort.

The young woman sighed. Blisters, nits, crabs, broken bones and oozing wounds… It seemed that the parade would never end. It infuriated her to think that her considerable powers were going to waste, despite Dagonet's moralizing speech about the satisfaction of helping one's fellow. Morgaine wondered how someone could be as annoyingly selfless as the fort's healer.

She thought with rising despair that she would probably have to spend all her life in this forsaken hole, until her hands shrivelled up and fell off, or until she killed someone. The latter was too tempting, and Arthur must have felt it, for she had been freed from tavern duty after she had glued a drunken customer to the ceiling. Morgaine considered that Vanora's anger had been largely exaggerated, because the man's pinch of her backside deserved at least a ripped off arm.

She resumed her work, thinking fondly of Avalon, and the life she longed for. As a princess, she would always have the menace of an arranged marriage looming above her head, unless she managed to break the chains of parentage. Morgaine loathed above all the idea of belonging to a man, like a toy he'd play with and then put aside, left to dwell in the company of women equally bitter and abandoned. The thought of bearing child after child until her body was broken, until all will left her like the blood from childbirth repulsed her. No matter how hard the road, how many the thorns, she would succeed. And she would return to her beloved Avalon, to the quiet life of a priestess.

Cries from outside disturbed her thoughts, and she exited the Healing Rooms to discover the source of the noise. 'Open the gates !' yelled one of the sentinels from his stone perch, and the guards' whip cracked against the powerful croups of two draft horses. The giant beasts moved forward, pulling on the heavy chains running to the wooden doors ; the ancient hinges creaked loudly as the gates opened, revealing the green plains and the road behind the Wall.

Morgaine marched to the entrance, curious, as the crowd gave her way in respectful fear. The priestess took her place amongst the knights, waiting for the news from the North.

Led by an elderly woman, a mournful procession slowly made its way into the safety of the fort ; the walkers were either very young or old, their clothes torn and covered in a mixture of mud and blood. Several were carrying stretchers. As they approached the knights, the old woman swayed with exhaustion, and would've fallen to her knees had Arthur not caught her. 'What happened ?' demanded the commander, frowning. 'Who are these people ?'

A bony hand gripped his arm as the woman raised her unseeing eyes to his face : 'Demons !' she croaked, 'Pagan beasts ! They have slaughtered us like cattle, poisoned our well !' Tears ran down her parched cheeks.

'Grandmother !' exclaimed a young boy, rushing to her side as Arthur untangled carefully the thin fingers from his tunic. 'Woads' growled Tristan from behind ; the knights involuntarily gripped their weapons and glanced to the woods beyond the gates. 'Poison ?' repeated Morgaine, and the young boy nodded towards the stretchers. The priestess approached the closest one and delicately pulled aside the rags covering the body. Immediately she covered her nose with a sleeve, nauseated by the smell of sweat, urine and excrements emanating from the victim.

The woman must have been in her thirties, but the sickly pallor induced by the poison aged her many years ; her breathing was laboured, and the priestess saw, around the mouth, greenish trickles of vomit that didn't disguise a blue discoloration, indicating an upcoming death by asphyxia. Closing her eyes and laying a gentle hand on the woman's chest, Morgaine let the tentacles of her magic snake into the sick body. She felt the power run through the veins, ramify with the capillaries, until it touched the poison, a diffuse evil eating on the surrounding energies. The priestess felt the damage it inflicted, as if it was she who was suffocating. 'Monkshood' she whispered to herself.

To the knights she said : 'A poisoning too advanced to be cured by magic. If the others are as severely intoxicated, there is naught I can do but ease their suffering. Unless it is the will of the Goddess they live, all will be over in a matter of days. I can not help them'

'Can not or will not ?' growled Galahad through clenched teeth, and Morgaine narrowed her eyes in fury. 'How dare you ?!' she hissed, advancing upon him, 'How dare you insult my honour ! I made an oath, you insufferable swine, an oath before the Goddess to help any woman in need ; and you have my word as well. Do you think such oaths are so easily broken ?!' The young woman was shaking with repressed rage, fingernails biting into her palms in her effort to hold back her powers. 'Do you think I would willingly let her die ?!'

The youngest knight made a move to answer, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Gawain shook his golden head, looking at her gravely, and it was only then that Morgaine realized she was crying. She wiped the tears away hurriedly, too shocked to speak further, her blazing eyes challenging anyone to comment the display of weakness, to mistake anger for compassion.

Dagonet kneeled in front of another stretcher. 'This one is dead' he announced, searching in vain a pulse. Howls of sorrow rose from the family of the victim ; a young woman cradled the body of her husband in her arms, a screaming baby strapped to her back. His grey eyes full of sorrow, the healer examined the rest of the poisoned.

'Five still live' he declared, glancing at Morgaine, 'But not for long.'

Lancelot kicked a stone in resentment ; Bors swore. 'So are we gonna just stand here and do nothing ?!' he exclaimed. 'You heard Morgaine' replied Arthur solemnly. 'All we can do is ease their passing.

* * *

Morgaine pulled the covers over another victim, the toxin resonating painfully in her own body ; such was the price to pay for the power of healing, a power useless for the people currently in her care. Extending her arm, she touched gently the woman's forehead, sucking away the pain, making it her own.

Pulling away her trembling fingers, the priestess glanced over to Dagonet, who was holding a poisoned girl in his arms, unbothered by the dirt and the smell, and laying her down on a bed. His gentleness and devotion would've irritated her, had the surrounding atmosphere not been so solemn.

Morgaine touched her cheek tentatively, feeling the tiny crystals of salt left there by her tears ; a sensation she had not experienced since she was a child. But she was the only one to blame, the young woman decided. She had allowed Galahad's brash, mindless words get to her ; she should've been more controlled.

'You all right ?' mumbled a voice into her ear, causing Morgaine to jump in surprise. An ungraceful move, she grimaced inwardly ; but at least she had managed to repress the yelp. The young woman glared at Gawain, standing beside her and trying to look innocent and concerned. 'I'm fine', she snapped. 'Go bother someone else.'

* * *

Arthur rubbed his eyes tiredly as Dagonet droned on, listing the possible remedies for monkshood, or wolfsbane, the poison's other name. He glanced at Morgaine, seated to his right. The young woman shook her head. As cruel as it may sound, she'd rather extinguish the rays of false hope they might have ; for there was not salvation in medication for the agonizing victims.

The commander nodded imperceptibly and, for a second, Morgaine got a glimpse of what he felt : the weariness, the permanent anticipation of danger, the despair. He was a man of word, and he was failing what he had sworn to do.

The sensation was unpleasant, and unwelcome. The priestess clenched her teeth, fighting off the flash of empathy. _Damn him and his honor_, she thought. Now that she knew, she couldn't let him fail.

'There may be another way' she piped in, interrupting the healer's monologue. But even Dagonet seemed relieved at the distraction. Galahad, in his great tactfulness, beamed with relief, and nudged Gawain, earning a glare in return.

'A more dangerous way', she continued, 'and with no guarantee of success.' 'Speak' urged Arthur, leaning forward, and Morgaine smiled, enjoying the mysterious atmosphere she had created. 'Well…' she began, 'Do you believe in legends ?'


	5. Chasing Legends

Any allusion to existing places or names is purely for artistic purposes.

* * *

- 5 / Chasing Legends -

The flame flickered and died, as if the fire refused to overhear the secrets of old. Morgaine looked around, demanding full attention before she began. Finally, she spoke : 'My people believe that centuries ago, our island was ruled by a clan more noble and powerful than any before : the Tuatha Dé Danann, children of the Goddess herself. They were fierce warriors, and skilled craftsmen, held in respect by the Gods, feared by their enemies. In their splendour, they left four great treasures to their descendants : the _Lia Fáil_, or Stone of Kings ; _Claíomh Solais_, the sword of Nuada Airgeadlámh himself ; the _Spear Lúin_**,** the blood-dripping spear of Lugh Lámhfhada, and finally the _Coire Anseasc_, or Cauldron of Dagda.' The young woman leaned back in her chair. 'This last treasure is a receptacle, never empty, possessing the power of healing, and even that to restore life. After the disappearance of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the treasures have been scattered across the land ; some were stolen from our people. The Cauldron of Dagda had been entrusted in the care of Senias, in Murias, the last of the four great cities of the Tuatha Dé Danann. But it was taken, and word was that it is now in Britain. The exact location is not known. However' - Morgaine lifted an elegant finger – 'I have reasons to believe that it is in Castle Corbenic that we must search.'

'Are you sure of this ?' demanded Lancelot, and she raised an eyebrow. 'Sure ? Of course not' she replied mockingly. 'I never said it was certain knowledge. But if you are willing to try, I will accompany you.'

Arthur remained silent, and she continued. 'Your commander is right to hesitate. For the cauldron will be guarded, and not only by mortal warriors.'

'Great', exclaimed Galahad with distaste. 'You want to send us to our death !' Morgaine smiled sweetly. 'Oh no' she drawled, 'Death will be a fate too sweet for anyone who should try to take the cup and fail.'

Finally, Arthur rose from his seat. 'Knights !' he spoke, looking around gravely. 'It is our duty to help those people. But you have the choice.' To his left, Lancelot rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Arthur…' he began, but his commander ignored him. 'Dagonet', he called, 'Are you with me ?' The healer nodded, not hesitating for a second. 'Bors ?' 'Of course I am !' bellowed the stocky knight indignantly. 'Gawain ?' Morgaine watched the golden mane of hair nod affirmatively. Galahad gritted his teeth. 'Well, do as you wish, I don't want to die !' he snapped, but Gawain cut him off : 'Oh, shut it. Morgaine's a woman, and she's coming. Stop whining.' The youngest knight glared at him indignantly. 'Fine !' he seethed, 'I'm in !' He stormed out of the room.

'Tristan ?' The silent knight raised an eyebrow behind his braids, and Arthur nodded in approval. 'My Lady, how long do we have ?'

Morgaine thought it over. 'A week, perhaps ten days' she replied eventually.

'Gawain, go get Galahad' he said. 'We ride at dawn.'

* * *

Morgaine clenched her teeth in order to prevent them from chattering. She was freezing, the cold wind blowing right though her as they rode. She was sure she was slowly turning blue.

'Bloody Woads' cursed Galahad for the umpteenth time. 'Are we there yet ?' 'No' growled Morgaine. He glared at her from atop his horse, and she fought the urge to stick out her tongue at him, like Isolde used to do. Thinking of her sister darkened her mood even more, and she wriggled, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. 'Sit still !' growled Gawain from behind. 'I can't' she hissed, 'I'm cold !' The knight muttered a curse under his breath, but pulled her closer to his chest. Morgaine resisted instinctively, but he sighed : 'You want to get warm or not ?'

The young woman gave up struggling, and let herself rest against Gawain's broad chest, enjoying the warmth emanating from his body. She wondered snidely what his reaction would have been had she finished complaining : she wasn't used to ride for days, and her buttocks were killing her.

'I mean' prattled on Galahad, 'How far is it now ?' 'For God's sake, Pup !' cried Lancelot, exasperated, 'Morgaine said five days. This is our second, so do the bloody math !'

'Someone's cranky' remarked Tristan from behind. 'He's just horny, and there are no women around' piped in Gawain. Morgaine didn't even bother to glare. She was too grateful for the warmth he provided, and too busy rubbing her hands together, trying to get their natural colour back. 'Yes there are, there's…' began Galahad, but Morgaine cringed. 'Don't you dare finish that sentence' she warned. 'Such scenes I'd rather not picture.'

The wind grew stronger still, piercing their clothes and burning every inch of exposed skin. Morgaine instinctively wriggled closer to Gawain, forbidding herself to think about the possible implications of the gesture. She wasn't comfortable around him, absolutely not. She was only cold. Yes : very, very cold. It seemed to her that minutes stretched into hours, as they trudged through the country in a part sulky, part energy-saving silence.

'Village ahead' stated Dagonet suddenly, and Morgaine raised her head, trying to distinguish something in the falling night. Pushing the hood from her face, she saw a few tiny, flickering lights scattered at the horizon. There was warmth there ; there was food, and a bed… Morgaine thought she would gladly commit murder for a bath. Two days in the company of the knights, two days with no stop or sleep, and she was starting to smell like a bird nest, an offence to her rank and her nature. The knights, however, didn't seem overly bothered by it. The priestess guessed some of them avoided water like the plague, probably fearing it would wash away the protective crust of dirt that shielded them from diseases.

The sound of hooves resonating on the irregular pavement of the road drew the few habitants from their houses. The villagers stared in awe at the tired, muddy group, who probably represented the entertainment of the year, and the sole source of news in this forgotten part of the island. Hungry faces watched the knights as they dismounted, the insistent stares making Morgaine feel uncomfortable. She disappeared under her cloak, allowing Arthur to do the speaking.

An old man came forth, tall and thin, his pale blue eyes contrasting with his parched skin. 'I am Alexander, mayor of this village' he announced jovially. 'Welcome to Girvan.'

* * *

Morgaine leaned back in the wooden bath that had been brought into her room. She smiled contentedly, enjoying the sensation of warm water on her skin, as she washed away the grime and sweat ; her only regret was that her satchels of herbs, that could be used to perfume the bath, had been irremediably lost to the hands of the Woads. She heard Gawain's displeased grunt through the thin wall, as the same luxury was offered to him.

The young woman only condescended to step out when her fingers became wrinkled, and dried herself hurriedly.

Suddenly, the door squealed behind her, and Morgaine whirled around, ready to defend herself. But it was only an old woman who entered, limping slightly, and carrying a bundle of cloth. 'Why, how beautiful you are, my Lady !' she cackled, grinning, and Morgaine glared at her. 'Get out of my room !' she hissed, clutching the towel. She felt the familiar power itch in her fingertips. The hag must've noticed the surge of magic, for she backed off to the door. 'I've only brought you clothes !' she whined, fearing the sorceress' wrath. Tossing hurriedly the dress to the bed, she slipped out of the room with surprising agility, slamming the door shut behind her.

Morgaine sighed in annoyance, and kept the towel firmly wrapped around her body in case any other uninvited visitors would show up. Finally, as the wet towel grew cold, she decided to take the risk of being seen naked, ready to tear someone's eyes out if it came to happen.

The dress was simple, but slightly low-cut, making it much less modest than the clothes Morgaine usually wore ; but it was the only dry garment available.

Stepping outside, she hoped she could make it to the dining hall without being noticed. But to no avail : a small crowd was gathered in the centre of the village, gazing in admiration at the priestess. The stares of big and small followed her as she walked through the dark, muddy courtyard. Children huddled together, pointing at her ; women sizing her up. 'Get away !' she hissed, as a particularly bold kid approached her. The villagers drew back, but not far, their greedy eyes watching her every step. Morgaine felt a surprising wave of relief when she stepped into the lights of the village tavern.

The room was dusty, and visibly unused since several years. The knights were seated around a table in the corner, Arthur at their head, and being served by two pretty maids. Around them, keeping a safe distance, were gathered the villagers : sitting or standing, peeking through the windows, observing mutely.

'I feel like an animal in a circus' mumbled Galahad, glancing warily to the crowd. 'Like some fair monster.'

'These people live far from the Wall' reasoned Arthur. 'I don't suppose they don't have much visitors.' 'Indeed' agreed Morgaine. She watched as a blue-eyed maid leaned forward to serve Lancelot, her ample bosom threatening to spill out of her dress. The dark-haired knight didn't seem to complain ; he winked at the girl, and she blushed. Grabbing his hand, she whispered something in his ear, giggling, and Lancelot turned to his brothers, flashing a winner smile. 'I think we'll take our leave' he grinned. 'Come, love.' Snaking an arm around the maid's waist, he led her out of the tavern. Dagonet shook his shaved head ; Morgaine rolled her eyes.

She glared at her plate : a small heap of overcooked carrots and some potatoes, swimming in their juice. Beside her, Bors seemed to share her opinion : 'Bloody hole' he grumbled. 'Making us eat grass like rabbits.' He washed down the despised vegetables with a gulp of ale.

Reluctantly, the knights tucked in. The villagers silently watched them eat what was probably their stock of food for the week, their eyes following every mouthful. They were hungry, Morgaine realized, almost famished ; all so pale, so thin, their eyes so… blue ?

She caught Gawain's arm as he raised his mug once more. 'Don't' she whispered warningly. 'Drink no more, all of you.' 'What's going on ?' inquired Arthur carefully, setting his own drink back on the table. 'Have you not noticed ?' the priestess lowered her voice further. 'Where is their cattle ? And why do they _all_ have blue eyes ?'


	6. Blood Ties

- 6 / Blood Ties -

'Bloody hell…' muttered Gawain, perplexed. 'How's it possible ?' 'They're all related' stated simply Morgaine. 'Like… a family ?' She sighed. 'Like a big, _incestuous_ family, yes.' 'Bleah !' grimaced Galahad, turning slightly green at the idea. Arthur leaned forward. 'What did you mean, about the cattle ?' Glancing around discreetly, the young woman explained : 'I have heard about similar cases before : exiled criminals living isolated, breeding between themselves. And as they lack the will for honest labor, they eat the meat they can find.' 'You mean hunting ?' supplied Galahad hopefully.

'I mean us.'

The men paled visibly. 'This is why I hope' continued Morgaine, 'That you didn't drink enough of that ale ; it has probably been mixed with some drug.' She stole a glance at the villagers. 'Pretend that everything is right. These people are cannibals, but they are no warriors. They will wait till we are asleep.'

They finished their meal in gloomy silence. 'Let's go' whispered Arthur, and they rose from their seats ; no one tried to stop them on their way out, proving Morgaine right. 'Be ready' warned Arthur at the entrance to their chambers.

'Why can't we just get the hell out of here ?' hissed Galahad, clutching the handle of his sword. 'Because Lancelot is inside' answered Gawain snidely. 'Bedding a cannibal.'

A scream echoed through the courtyard, followed by some nasty swearing. Every knight drew his weapon : axes, swords and arrows ready to cut through flesh. The door to Lancelot's chamber flew open, and the knight stumbled out, naked, clutching his sword in one hand, and holding the other to his neck ; blood trickled between his fingers. 'The bitch !' he exclaimed, 'She bit me !'

'You were that bad ?' inquired Tristan quietly, and the handsome knight shot him a death glare. 'Sod off !' he spat. Then he noticed their grim faces. 'What's wrong ?'

'We should go' whispered Morgaine.

Galahad gaped at his elder in disbelief. 'Lance… You're prancing around naked, and you're asking what's wrong ?'

'We should go, _now_ !' yelled Morgaine, pointing towards the tavern. The doors had slammed open, and the villagers were pouring out, their hungry eyes on the group. They were spreading out around the courtyard, trying to encircle their prey.

'Bloody…' began Lancelot, but Bors and Dagonet grabbed him by the arms. 'Run !!'

They took off towards the stables, slashing left and right, severing fingers and limbs to get through ; cries of pain and anger followed them. As Morgaine panted beside Gawain, she thought briefly that in any other situation, the vision of Lancelot's white backside flashing in front of her could have been comical.

'Sod off, you bastard !' bellowed Bors, smashing the nose of a villager, as he tried to stand in their way. Dagonet slammed the doors behind them, blocking it with his axe. Immediately, they heard the scraping sound of nails on wood, as the anthropophages tried to get through to their meal. Soon a fist hit the door, and then a weapon.

'A wonder they didn't eat the horses' remarked Galahad dryly, tossing a saddle at Gawain. 'A dessert ?' suggested the blond knight ; they readied the horses hurriedly, listening raptly to the noise outside. Suddenly, the rusty blade of an axe pierced through the wood, immediately replaced by several greedy arms ; the limbs were mercilessly severed by Arthur and Dagonet. 'Hurry !' screamed the commander, as three other breaches were made. 'The door will not stop them for long !'

Morgaine closed her eyes ; in the surrounding mayhem, the clash of metal against metal and the cries of agony, she sought the discipline necessary for her spells. Pressing her palms together, the priestess felt the warmth created between them, and amplified it, until a fireball was born in her hands. 'Step aside !' she commanded, releasing the magic sphere, and the Arthur jumped out of the way as it whizzed past him. The fireball flew through a breach, and exploded, filling the stables with the sickening smell of burnt flesh. The screams outside reached a whole new level of rage, but Morgaine was already preparing another one. Gawain coughed, waving his hand to dissipate the smoke. 'Show-off' he muttered, and she smirked. _Maybe he's not that bad after all…_

'Let's move !' yelled Galahad, mounting. Abandoning the defense of the door, the knights ran to the horses. 'Come on !' Gawain cried, dashing past her as she sent one last fireball into the opening. She followed, jumping on the back of his steed behind him and grabbing his waist.

'Morgaine !' yelled Arthur, his horse piaffing nervously in front of the half-demolished doors, scared by the smell of smoke, 'Blast the doors !'

'With pleasure' she purred, clutching Gawain's tunic in one hand. With the other, she drew a complicated symbol in the air. The half-broken door glowed blue.

Then it exploded towards the outside, sweeping the wriggling bodies of the villagers out of the knight's way. The horses lunged forward, trampling the mutilated bodies, their powerful hooves raising a rain of blood. Before the crowd had begun to understand what had happened, the group had reached the outskirts of the village, and was galloping into safety. The angry cries of the starving cannibals pursued them.

Even when the howling of the wind had long replaced the screaming, the knights dared not stop, for fear that the frustrated inhabitants of Girvan caught up on them. Though she agreed with this decision, Morgaine could not help but wish for a rest, for her entire body ached with exhaustion and cold. She was loathe to admit it, but the long years of quiet study in Avalon had left her lacking in physical exercise.

'Arthur, we must stop' cried Gawain, trying to cover the howls of the wind. 'We can not' replied his commander. 'Do you want to be eaten alive ?'

'I'm getting less and less adverse to the idea, if there's a fire involved' muttered Galahad. 'Hope you enjoyed that private moment back there, Lance. A night with a cannibal… That's a once-in-a-lifetime experience.' The handsome knight glared at him. He was presently wearing Gawain's spare shirt and Tristan's spare pants, which were maculated in some unidentifiable, but clearly smelly substance. Dagonet, in his great generosity, had lent him a pair of boots. No need to say that Lancelot had to curl his toes to keep them from falling off.

'If I'm saying this' insisted Gawain, 'That's because Morgaine's falling asleep. I don't want her to drool on me.'

The young woman swatted his on the stomach. 'I'm n-n-not s-sleeping' she stuttered, 'I'm d-d-dying.'

'Arthur !' called Gawain again. 'She claims she's dying. Now, can we stop before the drool freezes and I'm stuck with her for the night ?!'

* * *

'I h-h-hate you' breathed Morgaine, wriggling closer to the fire. Gawain glanced at her, unimpressed. 'Now, sit still. I'll bring you something to eat. You pathetic thing.'

The young woman wanted to glare at him, but that meant turning away from the blissful heat. And he just wasn't worth it. She heard him walk away, his heavy footsteps soon covered by the wind that blew through the branches of the surrounding trees. Extending her trembling hands tentatively, she reached closer to the fire. The warmth made her frozen fingers prickle uncomfortably, but unless she wanted to lose the use of her hands, it was a discomfort she had to endure. Still, it was less painful than the humiliation of telling Dagonet, the ever-concerned healer, that the answer to his question 'Where does it hurt' was 'My behind'.

She cursed inwardly. Her brilliant plan of riding in, killing the target and riding out had so far completely crashed ; she had somehow managed to incur a debt with said target and his brother, and was now stuck with a whole party of knights in the coldest, windiest part of the island.

'On the bright side, things can only get better.' She turned her head to see Tristan crouching nearby, an apple in his hand. Had he been reading her mind ?

The knight sliced a piece with his knife. 'You were scowling' he stated simply, chewing on the fruit. 'So you're from Ireland. Isolde's a sister of yours ?'

Surprised, Morgaine regained her composure hurriedly. 'So you remember her, don't you ? Remember the sweet moment you shared, too ?' He shrugged. 'Didn't force her.' She smiled coldly. 'No, knowing my sister you needed not.'

His golden eyes narrowed. 'She allright ?' The priestess scoffed. 'Like you care.'

The knight glanced to the fire. 'I do.' Something in his voice alerted her, made her pay more attention to his demeanor. 'She's pregnant' the young woman said softly, waiting for his reaction. Tristan didn't answer, only stared to the fire thoughtfully, his apple forgotten in his hand. 'I loved her' he said suddenly, glancing to the other side of the campfire to make sure no one else had heard. 'I thought she loved me. She said she did.' His voice was bitter. 'Stupid, I know.'

'She's good at pretending' muttered Morgaine. The knight looked at her. 'Don't blame yourself.' He nodded, acknowledging her statement, but she doubted he had accepted it. Like every other man who had truly fallen in love with her flighty sister, he would never understand that she could just walk away to another, that it was in her nature to act so. He would search – and find – reasons that made him unworthy of Isolde, to justify her departure.

'Tell him…' he began, his voice full of long-contained emotion, 'Tell my child that…' He shook his head, and laughed, but there was no joy in that sound. 'Guess I'm bein' stupid again' he whispered. 'Goodnight.'

With those words he stood up, disappearing into the shadows, and leaving Morgaine to her impressions. She had not imagined that the silent knight could truly love Isolde ; yet she should have : it was the way things were when Isolde was involved. Someone usually got hurt.

This realization did not make her task any easier, but it certainly didn't make it invalid. She had given her word to her family that Tristan would die. The knight stood between her and her freedom ; an easy choice, if not a pleasant one.


	7. At The Entrance

- 7 / At The Entrance -

Morgaine stared into the fire, slowly drifting off to sleep despite the loud protests of her half empty stomach : the few wretched vegetables they had been served in Girvan could hardly be counted as food. She looked up when Gawain reappeared in her line of vision, holding a stick on which were skewered a few slightly carbonized bits of meat. 'Here' he mumbled, and she took the proffered dinner.

They ate in silence, listening raptly, trying to distinguish an eventual hostile sound in the howling of the wind. Her part eaten, Morgaine wondered whether they would remain in the clearing for the night, or whether Arthur decided it was safer to move on. Her unasked question was answered when Gawain lay back beside her. 'Sleep' he instructed, wrapping himself into his cloak, and Morgaine wriggled, trying to find a comfortable position. Ten minutes later she was still trying, when she heard Gawain's exasperated sigh in her back. 'Are you done yet ?' he growled. 'None of your business' she hissed in reply, outraged.

'Will you two be quiet ?' grumbled Dagonet from the other side of the campfire, and Morgaine glared at him, even if it was much less effective from a horizontal position. The young woman tried to keep still, hoping that her tired body would get the message and let her sleep, but to no avail. She could hear the regular breathing - or snoring - of the knights, and it unnerved her even more.

Suddenly an arm snaked around her waist, as Gawain pulled her closer to him. 'Hey !' she jerked away, 'You want to lose an arm ?'

'Listen' he whispered through clenched teeth. 'I'm trying to help, here. If you'd rather not sleep, it's your call.' Morgaine had to admit that the proximity of his warm body was having an effect of her, though she wasn't sure if it was exactly soothing. She couldn't define the brief constriction of her heart at his contact, slightly painful and elating. Yet she felt comfortable in his arms, which was confusing given the fact that the man irritated her to no end.

Finally the priestess accepted the embrace, glancing around to make sure no one was observing them. Gawain's steady breathing soon grew quieter, lulling Morgaine to sleep.

* * *

Gawain pulled on the reins, stopping between Galahad and Bors to look at the view that lay before them. In front of him, Morgaine pushed back her hood, exposing her long hair to the wind. Gawain drew back, scowling, as it lashed his face. 'This is Castle Corbenic' the priestess announced, Where the Caudron is kept.'

'Then we must hurry' said Arthur, 'The people in Camboglanna will not last long.' Morgaine sighed, and dismounted, earning a frown of surprise from the knights. 'The way to the door is not a simple one' she warned. 'For the plain you see is naught but a marshland. Unless you wish to sink and drown, you will have to follow me.'

Picking up her skirts, the priestess descended the small hill, stepping carefully on the green grass. Soon she could feel the earth give way under her foot, dark water soaking though. She knelt carefully, and placed one hand into the water-filled imprint. Ancient words of summoning rose from her lips, spreading like circles on the surface. The disturbance began to take the shape of a small human-shaped being, a fairy. 'Water spirit' whispered the sorceress, 'Listen to my prayer. Guide me through your lands to the other side of the marshes.' The creature laughed shrilly. 'Follow' it squeaked, 'If you can !'

Spreading its little translucent wings, it took off, flying along the hill, as Morgaine and the knights followed hurriedly. The sorceress summoned an additional detection charm, destined to show the earth where it was hidden by water. Soon her boots were full of the icy, silty liquid.

The group treaded cautiously through the marshes, a thick fog surrounding them and shielding the castle from view. 'Stick together !' Morgaine heard Arthur call, his voice muffled in the damp air. Their footsteps echoed in the plain, the only sound they would hear for hours, save the occasional swearing.

The fog in front of them grew darker, and the young woman could soon distinguish the outlines of an ancient castle, the high turrets looming above the gates, the murder holes staring blindly to the horizon. Its mission accomplished, the water fairy dove into the earth with a shrill cry.

The knights waded over to where Morgaine stood. 'Bloody island' commented Lancelot, emptying a boot of its watery content. The sulky silence seemed to indicate that his opinion was commonly shared.

Arthur unsheathed his sword, the silver whisper of metal bouncing off the old iron door. He lifted a hand to knock, and the gates swung open at the contact, the screech echoing through the marshes. Behind the stone arch lay a desolate courtyard, centuries of abandonment exposed to their eyes. The narrow stairways were invaded with climbing plants. As she stepped further into the courtyard, Morgaine saw that the shoots had dislodged a few stones, weakening the construction. A rustle behind her made her whirl around, hands raised in a ready spell.

A small fox stood frozen before her, its bead-like eyes wide in fear. Then it leaped, disappearing into a hole in the wall. The priestess understood that the castle was empty ; no human had set foot on its ground for generations, and nature had claimed her territory back. 'No-one home' announced Tristan, stepping out of the shadow of a nearby passage. Galahad swore, kicking a stone in disgust. 'I have risked being eaten for nothing ?!' he exclaimed angrily. 'Oh, quit whining !' snapped Gawain.

Morgaine listened to the knights' bickering. Pointless, but it bought her time to think. It seemed she had been mistaken, in the time or the place, for if no one was guarding the castle, then it contained its treasure no more. The young woman slumped onto a nearby stone bench, pulling the cloak tighter around her body. The cold air prickled her skin as she ran her hands through her hair, trying to concentrate ; but there was no denying it, she was disappointed. She had hoped to see the Cauldron, even if she could not use it.

'Enough !' growled Dagonet. 'I say we ask Morgaine.'

All eyes were on her and she knew Arthur's question before he asked it. 'My Lady, what shall we do next ?' She bit her lip, pulling herself together, fighting off the tiredness and the defeat. 'Search the castle' she ordered, watching them divide into groups and trudge away unenthusiastically. She did not blame them. They knew, just like she did, that the ruined, abandoned chambers contained nothing more than dusty memories of mundane life.

Someone sat down on the bench beside her. 'You alright ?' murmured Gawain, and Morgaine wondered why he even bothered to ask, after all she had put him through. Still, somehow it pleased her immensely. 'I'm fine' she sighed, looking up. He smiled wearily. 'You have no idea where to look, don't you ?'

The young woman glanced at him dejectedly. 'Go away' she mumbled. Gawain snorted, patting her on the arm. 'Happens' he shrugged. 'I like you anyway.'

But Morgaine wasn't paying attention to his words anymore. Her eyes were drawn to the wall behind him ; for there, carved in the stone and almost entirely hidden by moss, were words in the Ancient Speech. The obsolete letters held a message for the worthy : "Here be Murias".

* * *

Morgaine took the proffered torch and took a step towards the darkness of the narrow corridor. The flame flickered, almost blown out by the cold draft, and the priestess turned to the knights : 'Be cautious' she warned, her words echoing down the stone tunnel, 'There shall be magic here of power much greater than mine. Do not touch anything ; stay silent.' The men nodded grimly, eyeing with obvious distrust the dark passage.

The corridor went down with a slight slope, winding under the ruins, further and further from the daylight. The air was unpleasantly damp, chilling Morgaine to the bone.

The young woman was tense, preparing herself every second for an eventual attack, her free hand tracing invisible patterns in the air. 'There's a widening, ahead' she muttered to Arthur, who followed her closely, and he passed the message on in a low voice.

Eight torches lit up the small chamber, as the group looked around. The stone walls were covered in ancient runes, most of them almost erased by the continuously dripping water. Three other doors opened from the cavern.

Morgaine ran her fingertips along the irregular carvings. In the eerie silence of the underworld chamber, she read : 'Three doors for three keys, three tasks for your treasure.'


	8. Wisdom, Sacrifice, Purity

- 8 / Wisdom, Sacrifice, Purity -

'Anyone understands what that means ?' asked Galahad in a low voice. 'Shut it, Pup' mumbled Lancelot.

'My Lady…' Arthur approached her cautiously. 'Which should we take ?' Morgaine bit her lip and examined the heavy, ancient doors. 'I'm afraid we have no choice' she replied, pointing to the last door to the right. 'There are three locks on this one, and none on the others.' 'Can't we just break it down ?' piped up Galahad, his voice full of hope. Morgaine wrinkled her nose. 'I wouldn't advise it' she smiled coldly, 'Unless you wish to remain here to guard the door for all eternity.' The youngest knight paled.

'Step aside' commanded Arthur, as he nudged the first door with his sword. The wooden panel swung heavily on its hinges, the creak echoing in the small cavern and up the corridor. The opening revealed naught but darkness. 'Be on your guard' advised unnecessarily Morgaine : the knights had unsheathed their weapons.

The first door led to another chamber, slightly bigger in size than the first one. The air smelled of old, an unpleasant mix between mould and dust. In the flickering lights of the torches, Morgaine noticed a stone gutter carved in the walls, filled with a liquid that the priestess identified as lamp oil. Borrowing Gawain's torch, she approached it to the surface.

The flames roared as the oil was set afire, and the room was lit up.

In the centre of the chamber stood a large wooden frame. The beams were supporting a complex net of thin threads, like a web woven by some overgrown spider. The threads criss-crossed in the centre, supporting an old iron key of intricate design. Even form afar, Morgaine could feel the power radiating from the net. 'Do not touch it !' she said sharply, as Lancelot reached out for the key. 'Unless you want to lose an arm.' The knight scowled. 'What shall we do, then ?'

The priestess circled the frame slowly. Narrowing her eyes, she managed to distinguish a pattern in the wood : another writing. 'A single arrow shall free the key' she recited, then turned to the knights.

'Tristan should do it' said Galahad immediately. 'He's the best archer.' The scout replied acidly : 'I'm not _that_ good. _You_ try if you like.' It was Galahad's turn to scowl. 'I agree with Galahad. Tristan, you should try !' piped in Lancelot. Tristan glared at him.

Morgaine sighed. The bickering had begun again. She wasn't a fragile woman, but the incessant noise was enough to give migraines to anyone.

Snatching an arrow from Galahad's quiver, she marched resolutely to the wooden pillars. Hell, even if she was wrong, death would at least bring her some silence.

The knights gasped as she cut the first thread with the narrow tip of the arrow.

Nothing happened, and Morgaine inwardly breathed in relief. Another thread was cut, and then a third, until the heavy key hit the dusty ground. The priestess bent to retrieve it, and glared at the knights. 'Men' she spat. 'You always think it's all bout physical prowess.'

* * *

'What now ?' grumbled Gawain darkly as they faced the second task. Morgaine had to admit she was puzzled.

The chamber was empty, even after the ring of fire had been lit. Only the opposite wall seemed interesting, with two identical holes drilled in the stone.

'To gain a treasure, be prepared to lose something in return' said the writing, and in the deepest corner of her mind, Morgaine was beginning to understand the signification of the sentence. Her darker, meaner self marvelled at the cruelty of the task, the unavoidable price to pay. It ensured much better than the previous test that the second key would not be taken.

'Morgaine ?' called Arthur tiredly, and she smiled. Once again, the smile was unpleasant, unsettling. 'As you have probably noticed' she drawled, the openings are at shoulder height. The men stared at her in incomprehension. The young woman sighed. She could understand they were tired, but still…

'Your hands !' she snapped. 'One of you has to sacrifice one of his to take the key.' _Question is, which ?_

Lancelot laughed bitterly. 'Great !' he exclaimed. 'First cannibals, now this. Bloody island.' He looked at his brothers. 'So this is where we decide who of us becomes a cripple ?'

The men shifted uncomfortably on their feet, stealing glanced at each other. Lancelot's words were true, an uncomfortable, shaming truth they did not want to face. None phrased it, but there was more to the question : were they prepared to cut off the hands of one of them in order to save the ill people back in Camboglanna ? To destroy the life of a brother to save a few complete strangers ?

'Are you sure there is no other way ?' asked Galahad almost pleadingly. Morgaine's heart constricted slightly at the sight of the distress in his eyes. 'I am sorry' she shook her head. 'The magic is too powerful. I can not break the spell.' _And I am certainly not going to give up one of my hands for a bunch of sharecroppers._

Arthur looked crestfallen. 'Knights' he began, 'I have brought you into this. I will not ask this sacrifice of any of you.' 'And yet you do !' spat Lancelot. 'Can't you see ?! You leave us with no choice than to act, or just stand here and listen as you announce you will die for those people !' he yelled. 'Don't you dare speak to me about a choice !'

Before either could react, Dagonet pushed them aside. Dropping his axe to the ground, he marched to the wall, his jaw clenched in resolution, and thrust _both_ his hands into the holes.

All tensed, expecting the blood-chilling scream of pain, but none came, as Dagonet pulled out his hands, intact. 'Are you gone completely mad ?!' yelled Gawain at once, leaping to the large knight and grabbing his shirt. 'You idiot !' Dagonet brushed aside the knight without difficulty, a ghost of a smile on his scarred face. 'Arthur' he said, opening his fists, 'I have the keys.'

* * *

Morgaine looked at the three keys in her hand, and then at the door. One minute earlier, she had warned the knights that it had been powerfully cursed, and that the spell might be activated if the keys didn't fit. Presently, they were gathered behind Dagonet, trying to appear brave, yet ready to duck. The priestess resisted the urge to scream 'Boo !' just to see them drop to the floor.

'Why two keys ?' mumbled Dagonet, and she grimaced. 'The sorcerers of old, they were… Nasty. I can only imagine they liked this kind of practical jokes.' Gawain snorted from the back of the group.

Morgaine took a deep breath, and heard seven pair of feet shuffling out of range. That really didn't help her concentrate, but she forced herself to calm down. Unfortunately, her imagination painted her very vividly the possible outcomes of the operation. Annoyed with herself, the priestess clenched her teeth.

Her hand trembled only slightly when she inserted the first key into the corresponding keyhole. A soft click broke the silence, as the first lock was opened.

Second key. _Click_.

Third key. The third door swung slowly open, the unexpected light behind it blinding the group.

All breathed in relief as they entered into the last chamber. Relief and admiration, for there, on a stone pedestal, stood the Cauldron. A receptacle of polished bronze, more of a cup, that shone in the torchlights. But it was not the _Coire Anseac_ that lit up the room. Plunged into the clear liquid that filled the Cauldron was a spear : a weapon incrusted in bronze and gold, that glowed red. Small volutes rose from the surface of the liquid, its purity tainted by the substance that trickled down the blade.

_Damn_, swore Morgaine inwardly. She should've expected this.

'Don't !' she hissed, and Bors' hand froze midway to the spear. The stocky knight looked at her in incomprehension. 'That's just a spear !' he shrugged. 'Wait. Don't tell me. It's magical, innit ?'

Morgaine rose an eyebrow as the knights gathered around the pedestal, clearly interested in a magical weapon. 'It's the spear of Lugh' she said. 'Uh-huh' came the answer.

The priestess propped herself against the wall, waiting. Finally, Gawain looked up. 'What's the sticky thing that's oozing down the spear ?' he asked curiously.

Morgaine's shoulders slumped in defeat. Did they never listen ?

'It's blood' she replied, satisfied to see the collective shudder as the men drew back. 'The _Spear Lúin_ is ever dripping blood. Moreover' – she came to stand beside the Caudron – 'It is so intensely hot that it has to be kept point-down in liquid… And someone obviously thought that the Cauldron was a perfect choice for that.'

'Er… can't we just leave it here ?' inquired Galahad, eyeing the spear with distrust. 'We'll have to' she replied, her lips curling up in a sarcastic smile. 'You see, if the Spear is not wielded for war, and out of the Cauldron, it will burn down the place.'

'So let's run' suggested Lancelot. 'What ?' he scowled, when he saw her grimace. The priestess looked at the knights. 'It is not that easy' she warned. 'For I believe this is the final test. Only a righteous man can take the Cauldron and use it.'


	9. The Omen

- 9 / The Omen -

'Step aside, Lance' smirked Gawain. 'This one's not for you…' His brother scowled. 'Well, then Arthur should take it' he grumbled. 'He's righteousness impersonated.'

'Arthur ?' Dagonet looked at his commander. 'Lancelot is right.' All the knights looked expectantly at their leader, who glanced at Morgaine. 'I can't take it' he shook his head in defeat. 'I am not pure.'

'Damn it, Arthur !' swore Lancelot. 'If you look at it that way, we should all turn around and go home !'

'Morgaine could take it…' piped in Galahad. He blushed slightly when she glared at him. 'Well, unless, er…' 'Shut it !' growled Gawain, gripping the handle of his axe, but his brothers seemed to consider the idea. 'My Lady ?' asked Arthur, approaching. 'Can you take the Cauldron ?'

The priestess looked around, taking in the hopeful faces, the tired eyes. They all had more than enough of the adventure ; all of them longed to return. 'I can not' she shook her head. 'For I have killed.' She hoped the explanation would be sufficient ; she _knew_ it wouldn't.

Bors scoffed : 'Then we might have a problem… We all have !' He gestured to the rest of the group. 'Wha' do ya think we been doin' for the last fourteen years ?' 'You don't understand !' snapped Morgaine, her hands balling into fists. 'You have killed' she mocked him. 'Have you taken pleasure in it ? Have you tortured, cursed, wiped out by illness ? I have !' She glared at them in challenge. 'I can not take the Cauldron.'

'I can.'

Galahad looked up, meeting her eyes, and Morgaine perceived briefly his thoughts. She grimaced slightly at the rush of empathy, for the feelings were not pleasant.

She suddenly found herself standing in a field of grass, pierced by a cold wind ; small houses were snuggling up together in the background ; the ground was nearer than she was used to On the horizon, riders were approaching, and she heard a voice whisper above her : 'They are coming.' The voice was familiar, yet unknown, for it was Galahad's memory. The child that he was shrank in fear upon hearing the pain in his father's voice. The scene blurred, and now Morgaine found herself in a battlefield ; she was taller now ; it was Galahad's first fight.

A weight in her right hand told her she held a sword, and she had to tighten the grip lest it fell to the ground. Her hand was sticky, and when she raised it, she saw blood. In fact, she was all covered in it, the sickly taste trickling into her mouth. 'Galahad ! Don't just stand there !' yelled a familiar voice in front of him, and Morgaine saw, through the eyes of the boy, a much younger Gawain. The blond knight could have pretended to the title of Crimson, the color bright on his golden tresses. His eyes were worried, and sad, so sad… 'You alright ?' asked Gawain, and the young Galahad nodded uncertainly.

Morgaine was not, though. The churning despair that was born in Galahad's chest that day, and every bloody day since, had settled in her stomach, its long claws ripping her apart. Never had the priestess experienced such disgust with herself.

Killing had never been a problem for her ; she did not care enough about the others to have second thoughts about their disappearance. She had not imagined what it felt like, to regret…

Regaining her composure, the young woman nodded. 'You can try.'

The young knight glared at the smirking Lancelot, and reached out for the Cauldron, that glowed slightly on its pedestal. Everyone held their breath as his fingertips brushed the bronze surface. 'I have it' Galahad whispered, grabbing the handle. He turned to Morgaine. 'What do I do with the spear ?'

'Everyone, out !' ordered the priestess. 'When Galahad will take the Cauldron, the Spear will set the place aflame… Be prepared to run !'

The knights backed away reluctantly, and on Morgaine's command, Galahad yanked the Cauldron from its pedestal. With a loud clatter, the Spear fell to the ground. Immediately, scarlet flames burst from the handle, licking the floor, spreading around quickly in a deadly halo. 'Run !' yelled the priestess, gathering her skirts. Galahad dashed past her, dragging the Cauldron and splashing water all around them ; the liquid hissed as the droplets touched the magical flames.

Morgaine covered her mouth and nose with her sleeve in order to avoid breathing in the acrid smoke. She ran the fastest she could, feeling the heat behind her ; already the flames were licking the walls and ceiling of the entrance corridor.

Suddenly, the young woman tripped and fell, air forced out of her lungs at the impact. Pain shot through her forearms, as she had instinctively reached out to break her fall ; she saw blood start to ooze from the scrapes. And then heat surrounded her ; she looked up, only to see the hungry flames spread on the stone ; dark smoke veiled the way out.

The volutes took shape, and a crooked silhouette stepped out of the smoke. It was an old woman, her skin so parched that she appeared ageless ; long, grey hair floated around her face like a halo. '_B__ean sídhe_' whispered Morgaine. Despite the fire all around, she suddenly felt cold, so cold that the tunnel suddenly seemed her a tomb. 'Have you come for me, old woman ?' whispered the priestess. The messenger smiled. 'For you too, child' she cackled.

Morgaine swallowed with difficulty, and managed to pull herself to her feet. 'Tell me' she demanded. 'Tell me the names of the condemned !'

The hag smiled a toothless grimace. 'Many' she murmured. 'Many will die…' She watched impassibly as all blood drained from Morgaine's face. 'You will go too, daughter' she added. 'Morgaine, Arthur, Dagonet, Tristan, Galahad… Gawain…' The priestess shuddered. 'For the child of your blood born on the first day of May will bring destruction and suffering to its land.' The image trembled, as more smoke poured into the passage. 'Heed my words' whispered the _b__ean sídhe_, 'Fear the child.'

The prophecy had left Morgaine shaking, cold sweat on her forehead in the middle of hell. She looked around frantically : smoke and fire ; smoke everywhere. Once again she tried to inhale through her sleeve, but the fumes were burning her eyes, scorching her skin. Air became rare, and she gasped and fought for every breath. Her lungs burned, even more than her skin, submitted to the infernal heat of the burning castle.

Morgaine stumbled forward. She had to find the way out. Now was not her time.

A silhouette fought its way through the smoke. 'Come on !!' yelled Gawain, scooping her in his arms. 'Come on, run !' He dragged her up the passage, swearing all the way, until they emerged, coughing, in the bleak sun.

'Are you mad !' screamed Galahad, grabbing Gawain's tunic and shaking him. Morgaine fell to her knees, her head spinning. She saw the Cauldron lay abandoned on the ground, forgotten in Galahad's attempt to stop his brother. Before the world went black, she saw the golden knight's concerned, soot-smeared face as he caught her.

* * *

'Nope, she's still brooding' whispered Gawain to Galahad none too discreetly.

In front of him, Morgaine scowled, and wrapped herself tighter in her cloak, trying to regain some dignity. That she had fainted in front of all the knights was bad enough ; but she had been rescued, _for the second time_, by Gawain.

The second time. Second bloody time, she seethed inwardly. She had sunk quite low indeed, if she needed assistance like some spoilt, pampered lady. The young woman knew that her life had not even been in real danger : a simple fire-repelling spell, or an ice incantation, could have allowed her free passage to the surface, head held high, composure perfect. But the truth was, she had panicked. And in her blind, mindless fear, forgotten in a second years of study and experience. One great priestess she was…

'Go on, ask her !' whispered again Galahad. 'I mean, what am I supposed to do with it ?' The youngest knight glanced in embarrassment at the Cauldron, which was tied to his saddle and clonked cheerfully with every step of his steed. Frustrated with Morgaine's sulky silence, he grumbled : 'People will think I'm some bloody travelling merchant…'

But the priestess had other matters to think about. The omen she had received did not leave her in peace : the names of the men she had come to know, along with her own, had been spoken by the death messenger. She knew she had only a little respite : until Isolde's child would be born. The date fit her own calculations perfectly ; and Isolde was her sister. Her blood.

Hadrian's Wall lay before them on the horizon, like the spinal column of some fallen, immense beast. Soon, they would see the fires burning at Camboglanna's gates ; soon, their quest would reach its end.

Her own words rang in her ears : 'Tristan will soon regret the day he crossed my dear sister's path.'

She knew he already did, every day since she had left him. And every day yet to come.

He had brothers. Friends. They loved him. Gawain loved him.

She owed Gawain.

Morgaine sighed. Soon, they would reach the fort. She would make sure the people were healed, and she hoped that it would be sufficient for both Tristan and Gawain to release her from her _geis_.

Then, she would be free to do what needed be done.


	10. Clueless

- 10 / Clueless -

Galahad glanced at Morgaine in uncertainty, clutching the Cauldron, as they stood, bloodied, dirty and exhausted, in the Healing Rooms. 'Set it on the table' she said, rolling up her sleeves. 'And find a clean goblet.'

While Dagonet searched the shelves for the requested item, Lancelot peered into the Hallow : 'It's empty !' he remarked, looking expectantly at Morgaine. 'I know' she hissed through clenched teeth. 'Now, get lost.'

The families of the ill people were gathered in the room, waiting for the miraculous cure, and Galahad shifted uncomfortably on his feet, conscious about being the centre of attention. 'What do I do now ?' he asked in a low voice. 'Touch it' commanded the young woman.

At first, hesitant fingers brushed the bronze surface. Then the youngest knight lay both his hands on the metal ; but nothing happened. 'You must wish for it to fill up' explained Morgaine patiently. Galahad closed his eyes, wrinkling his nose in concentration like a child. He was still almost a child, she thought. And it was the remains of this broken innocence that would save the poisoned people.

The bottom of the Cauldron shimmered slightly, and suddenly water appeared, its level rising until the Hallow was full. 'Galahad, the goblet !' whispered Morgaine, and he grabbed the cup, filling it with liquid.

The people in the room drew closer hungrily, looking at the water shimmering in the goblet with wide eyes. Someone reached out to snatch the cup from Galahad's hand, then another one tried to push his way through to the Cauldron. Angry cries rose as the knights tried to protect the Hallow, and soon the people were fighting, clawing their way through to the cure. Morgaine was pushed brutally against the wooden table ; as pain shot though her midsection, she gritted her teeth. 'Enough !' yelled Arthur, trying to calm the populace down. 'Enough !' Dagonet shoved the most aggressive relatives away, but the despair and the fear had annihilated the remains of any moral law. There was a cure ; they needed it.

Morgaine saw Gawain try to push his way through to her. Galahad and Lancelot had drawn their weapons, their faces bewildered. They had expected gratitude, not a mutiny. Someone elbowed the young woman in the ribs, eager to reach the Cauldron.

'Enough !' screamed the priestess, and the closest aggressors were thrown away, and the sickening smell of burned meat filled her nostrils.

She held a hand to her ribs, wincing as she walked to the Caudron. 'Form a line' she ordered, glaring at the shocked people in the room. 'And no pushing, cheating, yelling or other… pleasantries.'

Reluctantly, the families of the victims queued in front of the table, muttering in discontent ; some of them picked their relatives up from the floor. 'Those burned line up as well' drawled Morgaine.

With shaking hands, Galahad served water from the Cauldron to the men and women laying in the beds ; Dagonet held them up. Morgaine watched from afar as colour returned to their cheeks ; their breathing eased, and they drifted into sleep.

Then the cup was brought to the centre of the Healing Rooms, and those whose poisoning was milder, or those who had been unlucky enough to be too close to Morgaine, were healed in their turn.

* * *

Morgaine glanced behind her. Below, in the courtyard of the fort, a feast was being held, to celebrate the return of the knights and their success in saving the victims of Woad poison. Insanely huge quantities of meat were being roasted on a bonfire ; music drifted through the cold air. The people danced, sang, ate and got drunk, celebrating the fact that they and their beloved ones were alive and safe.

The priestess scowled. She would find no consolation in feasting, tonight. Not with her dilemma, that demanded to be solved. A part of her even hoped that Tristan and Gawain would refuse to free her, delaying the choice.

Two drunken guards staggered over to where she stood, oblivious of her presence ; they were discussing animatedly the merits of some wench's charms, until they spotted the sorceress. Instantly, colour drained from their cheeks, and they stumbled backwards, almost running down the stone stairs.

"Scaring people off again ?" smirked Gawain as he came to stand beside her. Morgaine sighed. "You got your Cauldron, you got your cure. What do you want now ?" she asked, faking exasperation. The knight shrugged. "We talked" he said. "Tris and I. We agreed that you're free." He shifted uncomfortably, looking down at his feet. "Free of your debt, I mean."

Morgaine faced him, dismissing the uncomfortable and cold feeling that had settled in her stomach. There would be no delay, then. She was to choose her side.

The young woman nodded, acknowledging his declaration ; Gawain glanced at her. "So…" he started uncertainly, "You'll be leaving soon ?" Again, he seemed absorbed in a fascinated contemplation of his boots.

Morgaine lifted an eyebrow. The question sounded much like him ; the tone, however, did not. "Don't sound so eager" she drawled mockingly. "It hurts my feelings, you know."

Gawain's head jerked up, his blue eyes boring into hers. 'I don't…' he began, and she smiled involuntarily at his awkwardness. It was a sight to behold, since it was the first time that she saw him speechless.

'I… Never mind.' Gawain sighed heavily and turned away. Puzzled, the priestess saw him trudge down the stairs ; only once did he look back, his eyes darkening with something the young woman couldn't identify. She frowned, chasing away the unwelcome feeling once again.

She repeated his words in her head. She was free of her _geis_, free to accomplish what she had come to do. Closing her eyes, the young woman pictured herself her future life : books and silence, and the beloved sights of Avalon. Morgaine sighed. It would've been lovely.

She couldn't kill Tristan. Not that she really cared or minded for the man – she doubted that he valued his life much himself, lately – but Gawain did.

Gawain cared for all his brothers, and had even cared enough to save her life. Morgaine herself wasn't sure that she would've done the same for him, had she not been bound by the debt. But this time, she wasn't about to stick around and wait until the Woads decided to launch another attack on some other hole on this island, curing crawlies in the interval. She would simply pay Gawain back, even if he'd never know it.

There, she had decided. She'd leave at dawn, conveniently avoiding any unwelcome questions and hypocritical wishes of well-being.

Morgaine looked up to the sky. The night seemed darker, all of a sudden.

* * *

The priestess pulled on the reins, and glanced behind her. Camboglanna lay on the horizon, peaceful and shrouded in fog, its inhabitants barely waking. When she had ridden to the gates, the streets were still empty, reminding her of yesterday's feast, and of Gawain's strange behaviour. By the Goddess, what was wrong with him ?! He had left with a face worthy of a burial, not a celebration, and Morgaine was damned if she understood. Shouldn't he be relieved that she left ?

Nudging her horse forward, the young woman thought about Tristan. The man was lucky, even though he didn't know it. Despite his creepiness, his brothers loved him. If only he hadn't met her sister, he would've lived a life that could almost be called happy. But Isolde had that rare, if questionably useful, gift of poisoning the existences of people around her. Morgaine thought that she didn't envy the knight : to love and be despised in return was probably a torture even she could never achieve… Or could she ?

Morgaine almost smacked herself on the forehead, as everything slipped into place in her mind. _How could she have been so blind ?_ The silent stares, the small, almost insignificant attentions, the kind gestures, and his words… Every detail was coming back to her, now.

The sorceress suddenly understood what had been bothering her : Gawain's eyes had held the exact same expression than Tristan's, when the scout had spoken of his feelings for Isolde. Gawain had said that he liked her, the young woman recalled. But he had meant so much more than that. He loved her.

And she, where did she stand ? Was there anything within her that longed for him ? Or did she truly despise him, like she had thought up to this minute ?

The answer came simply, in its uncertainty. Morgaine pulled from her memory every moment when her heart had ached in his presence, or skipped a beat when he had touched her. She remembered every time that she had fought with him. If she had been indifferent, she wouldn't have bothered to argue…

The horse snorted, protesting, when she pulled abruptly on the reins, turning around. Urging her steed forward, Morgaine smiled. She wasn't sure she loved Gawain ; the very name of the sensation was foreign to her lips. But there was only one way to know, and she was damned if she just let the occasion pass her by.


	11. Reunited

- 11 / Reunited -

The guards at the gates looked puzzled when she stormed through the stone arch, the rare passer-bys scattering in fright in her way. Oblivious to the angry cries behind her, Morgaine leaped from her horse, throwing the reins to a bewildered stableboy. 'Where's Gawain ?' she asked a sleepy Lancelot, who yawned widely before pointing to the kitchens.

The handsome knight had been overly cautious and polite with the priestess since their return : Morgaine suspected he feared blackmail, given the amount of embarrassing information she now possessed. She smiled inwardly. The sight of him running away naked, glancing behind him and fearing – literally – for his arse was to be cherished.

She gathered her skirts and rushed towards the kitchens, her heart singing 'Gawain Gawain Gawain' with every step. Her cold reason, however, seemed more sceptical, glancing at her overjoyed little heart with evident disapproval. _And what will you tell him ?_ it asked, adopting Morgaine's favourite mocking tone. _'Oh, sorry, it took me three days to figure out you liked me after I distinctly heard you say it' ?_ The sensitive part of her scowled, but reluctantly ordered her feet to slow down.

The young woman entered the kitchens, playing nervously with her sleeve. Gawain froze, a slice of meat on its way to his mouth. Morgaine noticed her own nervousness, and chided herself briefly. She had killed men without so much as a blink, and here she was, wringing her hands like a shy farmgirl.

Slowly, the knight lowered his breakfast back on the table, and took a step forward. 'You're back' he stated. 'I saw you leaving.' The young woman nodded. Her heart leaped in her chest as if it wanted out. Why ?' Gawain asked, taking another step closer. Morgaine noticed he was only wearing pants and a shirt that revealed a glimpse of his chest. She gulped when she saw the muscles rippling under the pale skin.

The blond knight took another step. 'Why did you come back ?' The young woman gathered her courage and looked into his eyes. 'Because of what you said' she replied. 'In Castle Corbenic.' She hoped he would remember, and not force her to repeat his sentence. No such luck : Gawain smirked. 'I said a lot of things, that day… care to remind me of my words ?'

Morgaine glared at him, but he grinned, unimpressed. She realised that they were alone in the room, and that he was only half dressed. The young woman felt the warmth radiating from his body through her dress, and her knees went wobbly.

No matter how handsome, she wasn't about to let a man impress her, Morgaine thought, feeling angry with herself ; there was no way she was going to chicken out. 'You said you liked me' she stated, her voice quivering only slightly. 'That I did.' Gawain's face grew serious. 'And why do you care, all of a sudden ?' Under his intense gaze, the priestess couldn't help but avert her eyes. 'Because' she replied stubbornly. He cocked his head to the side, smirking. _Damn him_, thought Morgaine. _Do I have to spell everything out ?!_

'Because I… I… Damn !' Her hands balled into fists, and she felt colour rise to her cheeks. 'Stupid man. I…'

His mouth crashed on hers, as she pulled her roughly into his arms. Surprised, Morgaine parted her lips, and felt his tongue invade her mouth, a sensation that was far from unpleasant. Before she could gather her wits and figure out what to do, he pulled away. 'I was just hoping you'd say you liked me back' he breathed out. 'Please don't kill me.' His face was so close, his blue eyes staring into hers : scared, hopeful…

'Stupid man' smiled Morgaine, snuggling closer. 'Do that again !'

* * *

Morgaine sighed contentedly and turned around, careful as not to wake Gawain up. She propped herself on one elbow, observing him while he slept. His face was so relaxed in slumber, so peaceful ; the face of a young man, which she sometimes forgot he still was, under the grime and the blood. Reaching out gently, she traced a lock of golden hair with her fingertips, brushed his cheek. Gawain grimaced in his sleep and tried to swat away the tickling intruder ; the young woman held back a laugh.

Laying back beside him, she snuggled deeper under the covers. _So this is what becoming a woman feels like_, she thought. Painful, and yet so sweet… She had expected physical pleasure, having heard other priestesses talk about it in the night ; but she hadn't anticipated the surge of emotion when she was in his arms, the incredible happiness she had felt when he had touched her, when they had become one. And that sensation, only Gawain could bring it to her.

She hadn't realized it felt so good to be _loved_.

Her stomach rumbled loudly, and she glanced at her lover, expecting him to wake. Slightly disappointed when he didn't stir, she slipped out of the bed. Well, her body had _other_ physical needs, and she was going to see to them now.

'Are you leaving again ?' she heard Gawain's worried voice. Pulling on her dress, she turned around. He was sitting in the bed, his golden hair tousled and tangled, a beautiful imprint of a pillow on his cheek. She smiled reassuringly at the concern in his eyes. 'Not for long' she replied. 'I'm hungry.' He smiled sheepishly when his stomach growled in turn.

Morgaine admired him as he got up. The perfectly shaped body, muscular and lean, the surprisingly soft skin, everything in him was now familiar to her, and yet still so foreign… Her heart swelled with pride when she thought that he was now hers.

He followed her out of the room, blinking in the light of the torches. By the noise coming out of the kitchens, Morgaine guessed it was about midday ; she walked out into the courtyard, Gawain trudging sleepily behind her.

Slowing down to allow him catch up with her, Morgaine glanced to the gates ; beyond them, lay the green plains of Britain, and beyond, the sea. The young woman narrowed her eyes. Beyond the sea lay Ireland, her country, and their doom to come. For according to the _bean sidhe_'s omen, her nephew's birth would mark the beginning of the end. In a few months, the prophecy would unwind.

She felt Gawain's calloused fingers brush hers as he tried to catch her attention. 'Were you not hungry ?' he mumbled, and she nodded absently. She allowed him pull her towards the Table Room, glancing one last time to the horizon.

'Why, Sleeping Beauty, took you long enough to emerge !' commented Lancelot dryly when Gawain entered first. 'You even bested our Cauldron King, today !' From his seat, Galahad glared at his elder, looking distinctly hungover. 'Fuck off, Lance' he mumbled. 'Or I might accidentally remember the part of our recent adventures you asked us to forget.' It was Lancelot's turn to turn pale, although Morgaine wasn't sure whether it was because of the threat, or because he saw his brother's fingers linked with hers.

All conversations stopped for a heartbeat ; then the knights began to talk animatedly, trying to look uninterested in this latest development. From his seat, Tristan nodded at Morgaine in greeting.

'My Lady, I suppose you will be staying for some time ?' inquired Arthur politely, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Morgaine sat up, trying to look dignified. 'Yes, my Lord' she replied calmly. 'I guess I will.'

* * *

'Must you really go ?' mumbled Gawain discontentedly, bending his shoulders in the downpour. 'Why not wait until the bloody rain stops ?' Morgaine mounted lightly, and glared at him from atop her horse. 'That's what you said yesterday' she commented dryly. 'It's Britain, Gawain. It _always_ rains.' The knight scowled, and glared enviously at his brothers, who were watching the scene from the safety of a stone arch. Morgaine followed his gaze.

All the knights had gathered to see her leave, despite the awful weather and the cold. True, some of them had grumbled profusely in the process, but still they were all there, shivering and cursing. She realized that not only her new relationship made Gawain hers ; he had claims on her in return, which led to her acceptance by the other knights. They had fought alongside, ran from danger when necessary, and she was loved by a knight ; she was, therefore, one of them.

'Try to avoid cannibal settlements !' shouted Galahad, and she smiled.

She leaned down to kiss Gawain, trying to memorise the feeling, and every little detail that would give her the determination to accomplish what she had set out to do. In the days to come, she would need to remember why she made those choices.

She nodded in farewell, glancing around one last time ; then she nudged her horse forward, breaking into a gallop as soon as she passed the gates. In three days' ride, she would be on the ship for Ireland.


	12. Gwydion

- 12 / Gwydion -

On the first day of May, as the sun began to rise on the horizon, Morgaine stormed over the drawbridge of Dunguaire Castle, much to the dismay of the guards supposed to regulate the flow of visitors. She waved dismissively at the distressed chamberlain, who scurried along down the hall. 'Your Highness' he blurted out when he saw the direction she was taking, 'Your Highness, you are not allowed into Princess Isolde's chambers !' The priestess whirled around, her eyes narrowing dangerously. 'Me ?' she repeated. 'Me, not allowed ?' Her rage at the man's cheek was indescribable. _How dare he tell her what she was to do or not, in her own castle !_ The man shrank away from her. 'But… Your Highness… She's…'

'She's in labour, isn't she ?' Morgaine cocked her head to the side, looking appreciatively at the door. It seemed locked, a detail that never stopped her in the past. The chamberlain gasped, casting fearful glanced all around to make sure no one had heard her. 'Your Highness !' he protested. 'It is not to be said !'

'My sister's a whore' shrugged Morgaine. 'It is quite well-known, believe me. I don't see how a pregnancy would surprise anyone.' She raised a hand, and the heavy wooden bar on the other side gave way with a loud crack. The chamberlain squeaked in horror and took off, probably to fetch some help.

Another commanding gesture and the doors swung open, revealing the dimly lit room of her elder sister. A terrified maid ran toward her, clutching a bundle of bloodied sheets. 'Your Highness !' she exclaimed, 'You have come right in time ! Your sister…' 'Has gone into labour, I know' finished Morgaine, brushing past the woman. 'Bring clean sheets, and warm water !' she commanded.

Isolde was laying on her bed, her beautiful, pale legs spread wide, her face contorted with pain. 'Morgaine !' she panted as a rippled through her distended stomach. 'Help me !' Her eyes widened in agony, and a moan escaped her lips.

'It is not going well' whispered the midwife, a plump and elderly woman ; she wiped her hands on her apron, leaving crimson stains on the white fabric. 'It is too early, and there is too much blood.' She looked at Morgaine with hope in her eyes. 'You are a priestess of the Goddess' she said. 'Can you save her ?'

The young shrugged. 'I can try' she replied, not telling the midwife that the outcome of her sister's fight against death was not her concern. She had come for the child, Tristan's child, though she had not expected to claim it so early. Only her respect for the scout and her love for Gawain motivated her. She would make sure, for the father's sake, that the son would live.

The maid came back with a bucket of steaming water, and the requested cloths. 'You will assist me' she said to the midwife, rolling up her sleeves.

'I can't do this !' Isolde grabbed Morgaine's forearm with her sweaty hand. 'It's too hard !' Another contraction racked her lithe body ; the long nails bit into flesh as she threw her head back and screamed. Her sister wiped gently the beads of cold sweat off her forehead. 'You must hold on !' she urged, laying a hand on Isolde's swollen belly. Unwinding the tendrils of her power, she examined the state of the child. The little being was fighting its way out, desperate to break free of the dark and narrow place it was crammed into. Its thoughts were incoherent, but filled with fear, an animalistic panic that made it harm its mother. The child turned abruptly, winding the umbilical chord around its neck. 'No' whispered Morgaine, paling.

'What is it ?' The midwife leaned forward. 'What did you feel ?'

'The child is strangling itself.' The young woman thought frantically, trying to come up with a solution that would allow both the mother and the son to survive. Right then, Isolde was a woman in need of the Goddess' mercy. No matter how Morgaine despised her, her duty was to help. The priestess frowned, trying to remember the medical lore she had read about. 'There could be a way' she began. 'The heathens of the South use it' _…For mares_, she finished in her head.

The midwife and the maid gasped in unison when she drew the small dagger she carried at her belt. 'Wh… What are you doing ?!' screeched the old woman as Morgaine pulled up Isolde's nightdress, revealing the stretched skin of her stomach. 'Stop !!'

The priestess pushed the old woman away. 'If you don't want to be a part of this, _then get out_ !!' she hissed. The maid scurried away, her wailing fading in the distance. The midwife glared at Morgaine : 'I will not allow you to do this.'

'It is the only way !' the young woman's grip on the handle tightened.

'You witch, you just want her to suffer !' Morgaine narrowed her eyes. 'Enough.' The flames of the candles in the room flickered in a sudden cold draft. 'Either you help, or you get out of my way. I will not say this twice.'

The midwife's outraged reply died in her throat when she saw the steely determination on the princess' face. She backed away reluctantly, signing herself with horrified fervour, and Morgaine looked back at Isolde's pale face. 'Do it !' her sister hissed through clenched teeth, summoning her last bits of strength and sanity. 'Please !'

* * *

The babe wailed weakly, at last. Morgaine had started to believe that their efforts had been vain, as she held the tiny, bloodied body of her nephew. But the child had proven more resistant than she had feared. Wrapping it into a clean cloth, the priestess handed it over to the midwife. Then she glanced to the bed.

Isolde lay motionless, her abdomen cut open, but the wound wasn't even bleeding : too much blood had been lost before Morgaine had arrived. She opened her eyes slowly, the gaze already veiled by upcoming death. 'Can I see him ?' Her voice was naught but a whisper.

She smiled weakly at the wriggling bundle in her arms, tears running down her cheeks. 'My son' she creaked. 'My Gwydion.' Her arms trembled, but what the midwife mistook for a shiver, Morgaine knew to be the last convulsion of an agonising body. Picking up Isolde's son, she ran her hand down the beautiful face, now motionless forever, and closed the eyelids on once sparkling eyes. 'May you go in peace' she whispered, as she pulled the covers over her face. 'May the Goddess carry you off to a better world.'

A strangled sob made her turn around. The midwife was staring in horror at her mistress' lifeless form. 'Assassin' she murmured, meeting Morgaine's eyes. 'Assassin !!'

Her scream woke up the little Gwydion, who started to cry, echoing the old woman's screams. 'You killed her !!' The priestess ignored her accusation ; she picked up her cloak and draped it around her shoulders. Brushing the angry woman aside, she walked out of the room, but the screams followed her down the halls.

The heavy doors of the Throne Room were slammed open, the guards pushed aside. 'Father' she drawled, advancing upon the seat where the King sat. 'Morgaine.' He frowned, glancing discontentedly at the gathered counsellors, whose terrified whispers got on his nerves. 'Do you bring me Tristan's head ?'

She smiled coldly. 'If you want a head, you can have Isolde's. She won't need it anymore, I am afraid.' Her father leaped from his seat, all colour drained from his face. 'Isolde ?!' 'Dead.' The word echoed through the room, muffling the whispers.

'I came to say farewell, father' Morgaine said. 'You will not see me again.'

'You have no right !' The King snapped out of his brief moment of grief. 'We had an agreement !' Morgaine cocked an eyebrow. 'You wanted Tristan to suffer' she specified. 'And my dear sister – may the Goddess bless her soul – had already taken good care of that.' She glanced at the babe in her arms. 'He is already miserable, more than I could ever make him. My part is done. I'm leaving.'

'I forbid you to !' barked out her father. 'You are my daughter. You must obey !'

'But I won't' sneered the priestess. 'Oh, father… Let us not disgrace what dignity you have left by my flagrant disobedience, and open disdain of your words. Let us say that you allow me to leave, and so I will do, like the good daughter that I am.' She bowed mockingly.

The King's face turned purple at her words ; he looked like a beetroot, Morgaine thought briefly, holding back a laugh. 'You… You bitch !' he spat, showering the floor before him in sputters. 'You will obey me !'

Morgaine burst out laughing. 'Sorry, father' she panted, fanning herself with her hand. 'I almost thought you were serious…' Her merriment ended as abruptly as it had begun. 'Because I almost thought, for a tiny second, that you were ordering me around.' Her voice was steely ; the lights of the room dimmed suddenly. The King shrank back into his seat. 'Good' she continued pleasantly. 'I am glad it was only a misunderstanding.'

She turned on her heels and walked away, her dark skirts billowing like the wings of a raven. 'Come, little Gwydion' she cooed, wincing inwardly at her own tone. 'Let us leave this wretched place.'


	13. Epilogue

- 13 / Epilogue -

The gnarled branches of the ancient forest bowed to the water, hiding the path from the sun. The lone silhouette dismounted, its long dark cloak covering the rider's features entirely, despite the warm weather. It walked to the little boat that floated by the shore, stepping assuredly into the unsteady craft. Clutching a bundle against it, the traveller waved his hand in a fluid gesture, and the boat slowly left the bank. Standing at the bow, the priestess – for only a servant of the Goddess would dare brave the marshes – waited.

The mists floated aside, allowing her passage, and soon the boat touched the earth of Avalon. The priestess stepped out, and looked around, as if she tried to remember the landscape that lay before her.

An old woman, silver-haired and clad in a dark blue tunic, exited the stone house on the hill. Narrowing her eyes, she murmured a name. 'Morgaine.' The two priestesses accompanying her glanced at each other in unease.

'Morgaine, daughter' exclaimed the old priestess, descending to meet her apprentice.

Morgaine did not move from her spot, waiting for the Lady to come closer. 'Long have you been away !' continued the old priestess. 'Will you not let us look at you ?'

The young woman extended her arms, holding out the bundle ; it wriggled, and let out a plaintive cry of hunger. 'This child is my nephew' spoke Morgaine. 'He must be raised here ; at all cost he will be kept away from Ireland, and from the knowledge of his royal blood.' The priestesses frowned. Why do you give us the child ?' she inquired. 'Morgaine, will you not stay ?'

The youngest priestess looked up, her hood hiding her eyes from view. 'My destiny lies far from here' she said. 'But I can not take the boy. He has the power that flows in my blood. He must be taught to use it, and to do so wisely.' She smiled wryly. 'Nimue, you know wisdom has never been my strongest asset.'

The Lady of Avalon took the proffered baby, and peered into the bundle. 'It will be done as you said' she nodded. 'Gaid, Doireann' – the two priestesses shivered at the power in her voice – 'That you have witnessed this will never leave your lips.'

The boy was then entrusted in Gaid's care, and Morgaine turned to leave. 'You do realise that if you choose to leave, the mists will not let you through again ?' inquired Nimue, and Morgaine nodded. 'So be it' she whispered, and the Lady sighed. 'You were to be my successor' she shook her head. 'And you throw it away. For a man.'

The sorceress turned around slowly, and the old priestess shivered in turn. 'You have learned' she whispered, feeling the frightening amount of magic only slightly disguised. She watched as the most powerful of her apprentices walked slowly to the boat. 'Take good care of Gwydion' called Morgaine one last time, before the fog hid her from view.

* * *

Asgeir stood on the deck of his drakkar, gazing to the horizon where a thousand of sails blocked out the rising sun ; crimson was their colour, like the blood of the brave that would soon be spilled. For this was a fine land, worthy a sacrifice.

The warlord admired the might of his army, selected amongst the most skilled and valiant sons of his homeland. His heart swelled with pride as the howling wolf, emblem of his clan, floated in the wind. The first drakkars soon touched the sand, armed men jumping to shore to hoist the ships to a safe distance from the salty waves.

Britain. A promised land, rich and fertile, where his clan would soon prosper ; he would be king, ruler of thousands of warriors and a million slaves. Asgeir jumped ashore as well, relishing the feeling of the earth beneath his feet. The Völva was wrong : he would succeed, and have many strong sons. And after his death, his name would live on, as he'd drink to the right of Odin himself.

A movement behind him caught his attention, and the warlord turned around swiftly, unsheathing his claymore in a fluid movement.

A lone woman stood on the shore, a few feet away. Her black dress was billowing in the cold wind, her dark hair hiding her face. 'Who are you, woman ?' he called, 'Have you come to admire my army ?' She looked up, and Asgeir saw that she was young ; her face would've been beautiful if it wasn't not for her eyes : dark, but not of the welcoming shadows of a warm night, or the depths of the ocean. They were like an open tomb, gazing back at him, waiting, calling. He clenched his teeth, fighting the rising unease, and glanced behind.

'Seize her !' he called to his shipmates, 'Else she alerts her people !'

'Seize who, my Lord ?' murmured his second in command, Snorri. The man's eyes scanned the beach, never stopping on the woman.

'The woman, you imbecile !' barked Asgeir, but Snorri looked at him warily. 'M... My Lord !' he whispered, bowing, 'What woman ? There is no one here except us…'

Narrowing his eyes, the warlord dismissed his second angrily, and turned back to the dark lady.

He realized suddenly that he could see the outlines of every pebble though her, and his heart skipped a beat.

'My name is Morgaine', whispered the wraith. 'I see your army, Asgeir son of Freyr. It is great indeed. But I will crush it.' The spirit smiled coldly. 'For this land is mine.'

* * *

Well, here's the end… I hope you enjoyed reading my story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Huge thanks to all those who read, and maybe reviewed Honor.

I was thinking of a sequel, don't know yet if it'll see the day.

Thanks again for reading !


End file.
